Razboynik: International Outlaw
by Xcom-anders
Summary: Based on the rebooted Modern Warfare timeline. As all eyes turn towards the war against Al-Qatala, the opportunity to breed destruction proves too great. A squad of ex-Spetsnaz finds themselves in the middle of an inferno, and their leader has yet to run out of matches. Will one find the strength to save his soul, or is he damned to be consumed by the hatred of his brothers of war?
1. Prologue

_I'm just writing something as a little experiment. See if it makes a splash and if anyone is invested in seeing something continue. Basically, the latest CoD has got me interested in seeing such a familiar world rebooted, which to me is notable because this is the first time in a while I've seen a reboot not piss the bed. So, my interest is seeing this new world explored. Not rehashed or retold, but a different spin on some familiar faces in brand new places and situations._

Prologue

"Can everyone please take their seats? Thank you," Special Agent Buford announced as the tech fiddled with the projector. The twenty-year intelligence veteran was a bit doughy, his wounding near the Korean DMZ found him chained to desks over the last decade. Still, threat assessments remained his specialty, a task he partook in with his usual professionalism.

"By now you've all read the reports. Assets on the ground are moving against Al-Qatala. Piccadilly was a wakeup call, and we've finally been authorized to terminate the organization. Better late than never, eh?" He asked to a smattering of polite laughter.

Over the past decade, Al-Qatala had grown from one of the several dozen mujahedeen cells infesting the northern Caucasus. As time when on, thanks to the auspicious leadership of Omar "The Wolf" Sulaman, the group ended up either amalgamating or cannibalizing other local jihadist organizations, leaving only scant exceptions like the CIA's nominal allies in the ULF. Of course, the Wolf was significantly more ambitious than the ULF, not merely being content to violently expulse Russia and further humble the waning regional superpower, but also desired to broadcast his message of revolution and liberation to all the superpowers of the world. Among those he singled out were the EU, China, and of course the US, in addition to Russia.

As usual, the rise of these criminals and extremists was often born at the hands of poor foreign policy. This particular instigator being General Roman Barkov, the de-facto regional governor of Urzikstan and lightning rod for every foreign fighter currently swelling Al-Qatala's ranks. Thanks to the General's "lackluster" policymaking, radicalization in the region was at an all-time high, and the effects were beginning to show themselves as far as northern Africa and Asia minor. Those who didn't flock under Sulaman's banner were beginning to either affiliate or at least defer to his organization, creating what looked to the world like a secular caliphate. If the Wolf's men got ahold of enough hardware or minerals, the War on Terror could turn from a glorified police action into a full-on World War Three. All thanks to one Roman Barkov.

That little tidbit was at the crux of the meeting Buford had called. For twenty years, Barkov had been instigating and brutalizing the country of Urzikstan. The international community, as it was wont to do, generally turned a blind eye to the atrocities, taking for granted the notion that a military garrison unilaterally enforcing its authority on some backward peasants would have no lasting consequences. Still, one would think that even if the UN would fail to rein in the man himself, Moscow would have issue with one of their own taking liberties with Russian foreign policy?

That, Buford believed, was the thing. It wasn't that Russia wouldn't rein in or put down its attack dog, but that it _couldn't. _Reports in Russia were all indicating a rather disturbing pattern of military commanders "going into business for themselves." A dangerous combination of capitalistic ambition (arms deals and merc work were both on the rise throughout Eurasia) and some (like Barkov) who believed that it was the weak nations to the south, not bad international policy, that bred the extremists who now menaced the global community.

About thirteen years ago, a man named Imran Zakhaev attempted to amass a paramilitary force to subjugate Asia Minor, rendering the territories protectorates of Russia, despite the movement being disavowed by the Kremlin. A fortuitous bullet through Zakhaev's sternum had hopefully dissuaded others from picking up what he left off, but in the eyes of certain military commanders (among them Viktor, Imran's son), all the extremists had done was create a martyr. Now, instead of Zakhaev's acolytes going through the trouble of civil war and going against the military, they were now content to rise through it, with Moscow and the rest of the world wondering what these increasingly independent units were planning.

"So, it looks like we can't just chalk up most of these defector divisions to a mass "crisis of the faith" towards the Presidency. " Buford shrugged. "Nor can we say that the Mafiya is splurging all its laundered money and buying them all off. If the reports are true, it would appear that some units near Vladivostok are going as far as competing with and destroying some gangs wholesale, which I'm sure the FSB doesn't appreciate. Right now, what we can safely assume is that whatever movement these commanders are trying to accomplish, right now they are looking to acquire capital. Considering that Moscow had effectively threatened to freeze the wages of any unit who didn't return their calls, it was in their interests to make this look like some kind of union dispute and nothing more. Of course, that would all depend on how creative these renegades are towards their goals. Or how ruthless."

There was a knock on the window. Buford saw out of the corner of his eye that it was his assistant. He motioned for her to clear away and wait for the meeting's conclusion when he noticed the shade of her face. "So, I guess we'll take fifteen, we'll reconvene after coffee. Thank you all for staying so late," he stated gracefully as he stepped out and turned to his assistant. "This had better be an emergency," he growled, irritated.

"Delgado is dead," she stated. "And so is Rivera."

"…Explain what we know," Buford replied.

Oskar Antonio Delgado was a rising star of the Sinaloa cartel and one of the CIA's most valuable assets in the region. They had gotten to him early in his career and managed to cut a deal which allowed him to selectively pick off his rivals, allowing him to acquire power for himself while allowing the United States and Mexico to stabilize the region. Agent Hector Rivera, on the other hand, was a more personal loss to Buford. He personally recruited the young man right out of college, the first in his recently emigrated family to have graduated. He had been assigned to Delgado as both handler and bodyguard, a duty he had served with professionalism and distinction up until about two hours ago.

"The police are still picking through the aftermath, but everything we've gathered indicates that the villa was targeted for a robbery," Janice explained, rifling through her haphazardly stacked files. "Some words that keep coming up in the dispatch are "Military precision." About thirty people have been reported killed, about a dozen or so being Delgado's squad of sicarios."

"With poor Hector among them," Buford muttered under his breath. "And none of the perpetrators have been identified?"

"All black-clad. No identifying markings, all cartel acquired weaponry, and the survivor at the villa hasn't given any information yet."

"You're telling me," Buford began, collecting himself, "that some group, without our knowledge, attacked the most secure safehouse in Baja, in the middle of our most feared pet drug lord's turf, and didn't even bleed on their end?"

"None. The operation began and was completed so quickly the perpetrators exfiltrated long before law enforcement arrived."

"And what about our surveillance," Buford fumed. "Please tell us our wonderful fucking tax dollars managed to give us something?"

Janice dug through the files until she came up with some stills taken via satellite. As fortune would have it, Hector had managed to activate a signal right before his untimely demise, allowing the CIA satellite passing overhead to focus on and take several photos of his last position. Largely, it was just an overhead shot of the villa. The only exception being the black van that had crashed through the gates. As Buford processed the scant information Hector had parted with before he died, he felt his blood run cold.

"The police are still trying to put the case together," Janice continued. "Right now they're thinking a rival cartel was responsible. Possibly Los Gammas or maybe the Veracruz cartel?"

"Of course they would," Buford spat. After everything he had just been told, this was just too quick and too thorough to be cartel work. The people who had done this were as vicious as they were efficient when most in that line of work leaned towards one or the other. This wasn't a robbery of happenstance. This was an assassination disguised as a robbery. With Delgado out of the way, his rivals were now free to form that which kept the DEA up at night; a co-op. Mexico was now one step closer towards forming a goddamn narco-state.

"Janice…" Buford started, his previous rage and agitation beginning to subside. "Get Laswell on the line. Tell her I need to speak to some of her associates. She'll know the ones."

"What do you want me to tell her?" Janice asked as Buford slunk back into the conference room.

"Tell her D'yavol just reentered the game."

* * *

Alejandro Rojas sat by the gates and fumed. This was the third cigarette he had rolled since sundown, and he didn't even smoke. He listened as his partner just finished fueling up the cargo plane and was going to warm up the engines while he waited for his clients. The ex-Russian was an international smuggler par excellence, having set up shop in Latin America after finding the locales to his liking. His underworld contacts often had him accompany cartel work, so it wasn't unusual for his new name to filter down the channels, nor was it likely for him to turn down jobs from those who paid upfront.

He exhaled and disregarded the burnt remnants of his last stogie and reached for his handgun as two headlights cut through the pre-dawn fog. He let out a sigh of relief as he recognized his rental. Looks like the job went off without a hitch. No cartel reprisals, no police interference, no bigger fish called to attention. Just as promised.

The driver poked his head outside the van. Anatoly usually found himself behind a wheel of some sort, often acting as a scout before missions and getaway driver afterward. The back doors slid open and the twins Lev and Kiril both disembarked, their AA-12s slung over their shoulders next to some duffel bags as they jostled one another, both passing Alejandro without a second thought.

"Where the hell do they think they're going?" the smuggler shouted at Anatoly, who shrugged as the next left the van. Little Viktor stood at around two meters tall, ironically the tallest of the band. His PKM hung behind him as he carried several thick duffle bags in his arms. He allowed one to slide down his arm towards Alejandro, who took it and reviewed its contents. It had a lot of wads of bills in it, practically bursting at the seams. All of a sudden, Alejandro found himself in a good mood. "Have I ever mentioned," Alejandro giggled. "That Ben Franklin is my favorite American president?" Little Viktor just sauntered forward, rolling his eyes as he did.

The remaining two then left the van. Alejandro, still elated with his bonus, approached the two with a smile on his face. "And how was today's hunt gentlem-"

The leader stared him down. "Your intel was off, Rojas. CIA almost had us ambushed."

Alejandro's throat clamped shut. "I… I didn't leak anything, Vladimir!"

"I never said you did. Your source wasn't all she was cut out to be."

"…Rosa…" Alejandro breathed. "…What she…"

The leader produced a diamond-shaped pendant. "If we are compromised, you are forfeit." That was what she was told, it was what she should have remembered," he said as he dropped the pendant into Alejandro's shaking palm. The leader strode away, leaving his lieutenant to watch as Alejandro stared at his late friend's keepsake, his pay all but forgotten. He thought about reaching out to touch his shoulder, thought against it, and left without a word.

He joined up with his commander as he prepared to board the flight. "Maybe we shouldn't have told him," he suggested as his partner prepared to ascend. The commander turned back to glare daggers at his comrade. "We are not his friends. We are his clients. His employee failed to keep her end of the bargain, despite what we paid and knowing full well the consequences."

"…Did she suffer?" the comrade asked, hesitantly.

"No," the commander stated, flatly. "Maybe if I gave her to Kiril, but he was too busy raiding the safe."

"As long as it was kept quick," the lieutenant sighed in relief.

"What about you, Yuri?" the commander asked. "Delgado was your responsibility. Any witnesses?"

Yuri thought back to the young woman screaming in terror as he gunned down her father in front of her. She had thrown herself for her father's gun, her hand crushed under Yuri's boot. Yuri remembered the look she gave him, begging him to pull the trigger, to not be left alone in a land with her father's enemies. He wondered if he'd ever forgive himself for his decision.

"There won't be any further issue," Yuri confessed.

Vladimir Makarov nodded, finally boarding the plane. The plan would take them down south, towards Lima. Afterward, the group would split and go their separate ways, rendezvousing at Makarovs behest and the location of his choosing. It wasn't an easy life, being an international terrorist-for-hire, but Makarov wasn't in this for money. With every job, he inched ever closer to his goal. Soon, Makarov would be the leader of his own destiny. And if he happened to hurt Captain John Price along the way, well, who was he to complain?

_OK, here it is, the teaser. If it doesn't interest you, I understand, but if it does, PLEASE let me know. I believe this world is worth exploring, and any justification I can get to further it will go a long way! To answer some questions before they are asked, this is a Makarov of the new 2019 timeline. He is former VDV, ex-Spetsnaz, and has been previously acquainted with Price. Unlike the original timeline, his goal isn't world or regional domination. In this continuity, I like to think of him as like a kind of "anti-Price." While Price goes around looking to put out fires, Makarov is setting them. If you would like to learn more, again, FEEDBACK, PLEASE!_

_Thank you._

_Also, special thanks to Sassy Satsuma for the inspiration and motivation to post this. Seriously, read Caught in the System_


	2. Lost Souls

Lost Souls

Brigadier General Zakhaev watched the newsfeed as it broadcasted more images of the embassy attack. Once again, the Americans had overestimated their abilities and found their security wanting in the face of an angry mob. There were rumors that the attack was spurred on by the captivity of Omar Sulaman, and it certainly fit the MO of Al-Qatala's chief lieutenant. A mess for all involved. Good news for him.

He glanced out the window, towards the cold-water harbor of Vladivostok. This city was serving as his impromptu headquarters in light of recent events. Two months ago, Zakhaev had sent another request to Moscow, demanding that he supersede Barkov's campaign in Urzikstan, Upon denial, he was transferred farther east, exactly as he intended. From his new base on the frontier of the country, he was finally free of the prying eyes of his government, and free to make the decisions necessary to further his ambitions.

"General?" the sentry posted outside his office entered. "I have the… associate on a secure line."

"Patch him through," Zakhaev replied as he shut off the television. Picking up the brick-shaped phone, he waited for his staff below to connect him with the "asset" he had come to depend on these last few years. The static began to clear as the caller began to speak. "S Nami Borg."

"Not for a Russian," the general responded. Viktor Zakhaev leaned back in his chair, grinning. "So, choir boy, how do you like your new accommodations?" Faintly in the background, the general could make out what he presumed to be club music.

"My men are enjoying their leisure," was the answer.

"And you?"

"Do you have a new mission for me?"

Viktor had to stop himself from laughing. The expected reaction. Choir boy that he was, his bizarre principles never ceased to fascinate and amuse the brigadier. That being said, it suited him that this asset behaved himself off the clock. It was too much to ask for most people in his line of business.

"I was just watching the fruits of Barkov's labor," Zakhaev continued. Choir boy snorted. This time Zakhaev couldn't hide the laugh. They had few things in common, but a shared dislike of Roman Barkov kept both honest with one another. Both men had watched as someone who had to be Russia's least capable commander squandered his posting and opportunities in Urzikstan. For a man who claimed to specialize in counter-insurgency, Barkov's record didn't reflect it. Zakhaev even opened an aged bottle of whiskey to celebrate the humiliation of Barkov losing access to his primary airfield, even if he covered it by saying it was a toast for the fallen soldiers.

"The loss of the embassy won't reflect any better on Barkov's tenure as regional governor. For all his squawking of being politically untouchable, eventually, he's going to discover how much capital he's blown in Moscow. The only reason they haven't abandoned him to NATO is that they're hoping the rebels will get lucky and save them the trouble," Zakhaev proclaimed.

"Is that what this is about?" Choir boy spoke up. "Are you asking if I can "save" the rebels some trouble?"

"Well, someone is eager today," Zakhaev replied as his smile faltered. "As tempting as the notion is to us both, it may be too much of a risk at this point in time. Besides, our friends upstairs would rather we focus on the other matters on hand. I've been talking to some acquaintances of mine down south, and I think we have come to a mutually beneficial agreement that can serve all of us in the future."

"I'm listening," Choir boy said as the sound of a door closing began to cancel out the music.

"My… counterpart in the PLA, General Peng, has something that might interest you and your legion of lost souls," Zakhaev continued. "Recently, China has been dealing with trouble at the hands of cyber-activists," Zakhaev rolled his eyes as he said it. More like a bunch of computer nerds streaming banned American video games and Japanese pornography for the most part. That China considered this a priority of the highest echelon was unbecoming of a government that aspired to dominate the world. Waging petty crusades on such issues hurt the CCP's credibility on top of what the whistleblower had already done. Speaking of…

"Of particular note is the sudden disappearance of noted a whistleblower. Do you remember hearing about that clandestine anti-carrier weapons program Beijing was planning? That was them."

"A whistleblower in that country of all places? This… hacker, I suppose, doesn't lack for courage," Choir boy responded.

"They had gone by the handle MSAKR89," Zakhaev continued. "Once you decipher that, you'll see that courage doesn't even begin to describe it. This hacker had been a thorn in Beijing's side for over a year as well as one of our most valuable assets up until three months ago."

"He's not dead?" Choir boy asked.

"Peng suspects that they want to sweat anything else they can out of the geek before throwing them in a work camp for the rest of their lives. Look, whoever this is, this hacker has effectively been disavowed by their own government. And, well, considering what happened to your last intelligence specialist…"

"I see," Choir boy stated. "And what does Peng get out of this?"

"Well, not everything is a utopic wonderland in the PLA. There is a rivalry brewing between the regular military and the private companies that have been supplementing them."

"And one of these companies is handling the prisoner?" The choir boy assessed.

"I suppose the CCP had been inspired by the limited liability western-style PMC's can offer. There's a few hunting Jackyls in Africa and others performing anti-pirate duties outside your window. And, as luck would have it, the caregivers of MSAKR89's well-being goes by the name Iron Tigers," Zakhaev explained.

"How very concerning. And here I was thinking you were just sending us to fight the PLA," Choir boy sighed. "So, the mission is to extract a prisoner and give a black eye to one of General Peng's rivals?"

"That would be the long and short of it," Zakhaev admitted. "And having Peng in our debt would make going forward significantly easier. And do be so kind as to not draw the attention of the PAP, either. You may be an outlaw, but try to stay one step ahead of the law before trying to challenge it."

"Just send me information on the location of the route and time tables. If I can work with it, we'll have the mission done before the week is over."

To call the club seedy was something of an understatement. Following an economic crisis and some government upheavals, some of the Malaysian islands had denigrated into lawless territories. The port town the group was currently held up in used to be a coastal shantytown for fishermen and farmers. Now it was run by pirates and gangsters who worshiped the dollar and made prices on human lives. To them, money meant everything, even if it meant lifting cargo from passing freighters, trafficking drugs and lives, or giving safe haven to criminals and terrorists.

Anatoly waited for his beer as he glanced over the stage, watching as three new dancing girls took over for the others as they went to the back. In a land where one hundred US dollars a week was considered middle class, the money he was flashing garnered quite a few pretty eyeballs. He was pretty much on a first-name basis with most of the girls since last night, and was planning to amend the second half tonight.

After receiving his beer, he winked at the bartender as he left, a part of him wondering if she was still sore after last night.

He rejoined his compatriots at the booth as they were in the middle of cutting up a souvenir they had gotten from Delgado's estate and sharing it with some of the girls. Lev wiped his nose, dabbing some of the crimson residues away with a napkin as he saw Anatoly approach. Seeing it was a little crowded, he motioned for Anatoly to pull up a chair. "We were just having a little toast for the health of our benefactor!" he joked in Russian, prompting laughter from the two women beside him who assuredly had no idea what he even said.

"Who the fuck even leaves $80 million in cash just lying around?" Anatoly asked as he took a swig.

"Eh, these drug dealers don't know the first thing about investments and shit like that," Lev snorted as one of his new girlfriends wiped away some sweat before passing the $100 bill to her coworker. "Hey, Vik, what was that thing you called it?"

Viktor looked up from the topless woman grinding on him. "Scrooge McDuck Syndrome."

"Right, that! Dumb decision for him, great news for us!" Lev laughed. As he did, Anatoly noticed that Lev's brother, Kiril, was staring intently at the dancers on stage. Not like the rest of the patrons crowding around it, though. The look on his face reminded him of that of an eagle owl honing in on a small deer.

"Hey, uh, Kiril?" Anatoly began, extending his beer towards the quieter sibling. "You do anything interesting since we got here?"

"…Not yet," the quiet man said, cryptically. No one had been reported missing, from what Anatoly could tell, so he was probably telling the truth. The last thing he needed right now was for shitty impulse control to fuck up his evening.

"Say, has anyone seen Makarov since we got here?" Anatoly asked.

Lev motioned his head to the corner. "You could ask his work-spouse."

Yuri didn't trust the place. Once he learned that this town was to be their destination, he did some reading up until his arrival. The town, known as Kham Tsen, was originally planned to be a tourist mecca. After the economic collapse, it was slowly taken over by less-than-reputable entrepreneurs. Sure, they were mutual associates as their bosses tendrils spread deep through the international underworld, but it wasn't the Malay Mob or the adjacent pirate bands that worried him.

Standing near the entrance, he once again briefly scanned the upper balcony where their party stayed with the rest of the guests. No one innately suspicious, mostly just some young European and American "adventure tourists" he thought with a smirk. If they wanted adventure, they could have just brought some 9mm insurance instead of smartphones.

He heard a noise coming from the outside. Peeking around the corner, he saw a bruised up jeep pull up alongside the entryway, with what looked like some aggressive punks armed with automatic weaponry. Yuri felt his hand slide behind his jacket as one of them got out and approached the bouncer. He didn't relax until he saw money exchange hands, a few curt words were shared, and the man got back into the jeep as it sped off. He breathed a sigh of relief. For all his research, Makarov had, as usual, done more. This building was under the direct ownership of one of the most powerful mob bosses in South East Asia, and everyone in this town realized it. Yuri brushed aside his paranoia, even if he couldn't push away the notion that one day another group of highly trained and heavily armed outlaws would find where they were hiding and enact upon them what they did to others for a living.

They weren't Spetsnaz, not anymore. No more aerial support, no more regular army reinforcements, no more patriotic camaraderie. It was something he had grappled with daily ever since Beirut. He had a choice to make; his country or his idol. All he could say was that Makarov, in all their years of partnership, had never turned his back on him. After everything Yuri had been through, that was all he could ask for.

"Hey, Yuri, where's your husband?" Lev called out from the booth. Yuri exhaled as he turned to meet up with the group. All four of his comrades were also former Spetsnaz operators, each expelled for various reasons. A band of lost souls, as Makarov was fond of saying.

"Talking to the general, I suppose," Yuri admitted.

"He's been holed up there since we got here," Anatoly said as he scratched his chin. "Let's say we pitch in and buy him a round and an hour with a girl. Our treat!"

"He has been up there for a while," Yuri confessed. "I'll go and see what's up with him. Oh, and hold off on your "gifts." He will probably take it the wrong way."

As Yuri climbed up the stairs, the four looked at one another. "OK, serious question," Anatoly, the newest member began. "Have any of you three ever seen Makarov with a woman?"

"I've never seen him drink anything besides water," Lev admitted.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck," Little Viktor stated as he hiked the girl over his shoulder. "That's what you sound like. Bunch of gossipy hens. I don't know anything about him. I don't know anything about you guys. I really don't want to know about you," he pointed to Kiril, who snickered. "I don't need to know. WE don't need to know. You want to stick your pricks in hornet nests, be my guests. I got better things to do," he said as he carried the bargirl to his room.

By the time Yuri was about to knock on Makarov's door, it had already swung open.

"Yuri! Perfect timing," Makarov explained as he invited his subordinate into his room. "I'm going to need to make some calls, and could use some help preparing."

They spent a half-hour looking over maps, cross-referencing timetables and making necessary supply purchases. As they worked, Yuri started to grow suspicious. "Um, Vladimir? What do you know about these Iron Tigers?"

"Another Chinese PMC. Seems a lot of these are popping up lately," Makarov explained as he arranged some crypto-coin transfers.

"But one operating on Chinese soil? I mean, territories and assets are one thing, but they seem to be doing what Chinese law enforcement is supposed to be taking care of. Why are security contractors guarding some whistleblowing hacker?"

Makarov turned to look at his protégé. "It's suspect, I admit. As usual, Zakhaev is keeping his cards close to his chest."

"With all due respect, Vladimir, there's close to the chest, and there's going in blind. There's something he isn't telling us."

"We're as much a liability to him as we are assets," Makarov explained as he turned to Yuri. "We need every crumb we can gather. And besides, we need a new Andrei." Visions of brain leaking out of a skull filled Yuri's mind. The rhythmic drops of viscera had compounded the shrill sound of a cell phone going off. Such a memory was practically branded into Yuri's psyche, an object lesson he could never afford himself to forget.

Makarov noticed Yuri's hesitance, placing a hand on his shoulder. "My friend, so long as the group stays together, there is nothing worth fearing."

"Yes, Vladimir. Understood," Yuri nodded.

"Tell the men to keep their celebrations limited. We leave for Macau before daybreak. Oh, and we'll need the vehicle upon arrival. A meager yet reliable pickup should suffice. It might get cramped, but it won't garner suspicion."

"And exfil?" Yuri asked.

"A work in progress. We may have to lay low until we can arrange something. So whatever the men need to get out of their systems they better take care of tonight."

"And you?" Yuri asked. "Another early night?"

Makarov looked out his window. One of their fellow hotel guests was an American college-age couple, who were currently arguing by the street corner. The boyfriend, if Makarov was one to speculate, came here for the adrenaline rush of going to such a sketchy hostel, while his girlfriend looked like she had wanted to leave the second their bus dropped them off. They were so engrossed in their argument that they paid no attention to the shady group of thugs glancing at them from their jeep.

Yuri joined him by the window. He figured if the kids had the kind of trust funds that guaranteed the arrogance of vacationing here, the ransom their families paid would be a nice little bonus on top of the Malay Mob's income. If not, then the boy would quietly disappear while the girl, after a thorough and unpleasant "reconditioning" would probably find herself working in an establishment much like this one for the rest of her life.

"What do you say?" Makarov asked Yuri. "Want to be a hero?"

Yuri looked out and stared as the jeep riders began conversing with one another. The couple continued their arguing, not paying mind to the one thug leaving the jeep and approaching them. Yuri looked to Makarov, who opted simply to watch how the scenario was about to unfold. With only a service pistol, Yuri would have his work cut out for him if he went out to intercept alone.

"You have my back?" Yuri asked.

"No," Makarov shook his head.

The bouncers immediately approached the arguing couple, with one trying to placate their customers while the other brandished a sawed-off as they were distracted, driving away the thugs. Makarov looked to Yuri. "Did you really think that the owners would allow the locals to brutalize paying customers?" he smirked.

"I guess not," Yuri admitted.

"…I must admit, I kind of admire you," Makarov confessed as he drew the blinds to a close. "Most people would have lost their idealism by now.

"Just trying to follow your example," Yuri nodded.

"If only Andrei had similar sentiments, maybe he'd still be alive," Makarov exclaimed as he motioned for the door. "Get some rest, Yuri. We'll need it for what is about to happen. I think you may be right. We're about to get into something much bigger than we now know."


	3. Surgical

Chapter 3: Surgical

_Everyone seemed to underestimate how bad things would get after the Wall collapsed. The Soviet Union fell, and a dozen or so countries sprung from the ashes, with others springing out to struggle for their own independence and sovereignty. Among them was the special economic zone of Volslage. Originally intended by NATO to serve as a buffer zone between allied countries and Russia within the Balkan Peninsula, recently anti-Moscow sentiment had reached a fever pitch, culminating in a unified resistance force attacking the Russian sector. So they called in the military. But Intel had screwed up._

_An armored convoy had underestimated the strength of the insurgent fighters. An IED detonated in the center of the brigade, cutting it in half as the militia began attacking the invaders piecemeal. In the vanguard, a volley of rockets destroyed the lead BTR, the sole survivor managing to escape with his own life. He had tried to shoot back, to defend himself and retaliate, to no avail. As the rest of the convoy was either cut down in the crossfire or withdrew to regroup, the sole survivor found himself on the run through the cramp alleyways, the sounds of footsteps and automatic fire dogging his heels._

_He had taken so many turns that even he was lost. He cursed the city for embracing its heritage roads, escaping the blocked architectural grouping that the rest of the old Soviet Union embraced. How did anyone hope to navigate this shithole district? He briefly turned behind him to look, hoping not to see a militia muzzle or unfriendly pair of eyes. Taking a much-needed moment to catch his breath, he heard the sound of a rifle locking in behind him._

"_Turn around slowly," the voice hissed. The soldier did as requested, keeping his carbine at his side as he gazed upon his captor. He breathed a sigh of relief. Most of the militia could speak Russian, but as luck would have it, he stumbled upon a friendly paratrooper. Hopefully friendly._

_The paratrooper's mismatched eyes glared down the rifleman. "Name and unit, soldier."_

"_Yuri Sokolov. Corporal. 128__th__ Motor Rifle Brigade." The soldier explained._

"_Ah, so you're the cavalry?" the paratrooper proclaimed as he dropped his AK. "Sergeant Makarov. 66__th__ Airborne Battalion. Third Company. Second Squad."_

"_Is the rest of your unit nearby?" Yuri asked, hopefully._

"_You are looking at it," Makarov spat, sourly._

"_I'm sorry, sir," Yuri replied._

"_Not as sorry as they are going to be," Makarov muttered as he turned away, limping as he scanned the alleyway._

"_You are wounded," Yuri exclaimed._

"_I noticed," Makarov shot over his shoulder._

"_Let me take point, sir," Yuri offered._

"_I'm a liability to us," Makarov announced. "You taking a bullet for me gets both of us killed. You want to help?" Makarov motioned to the Dragunov slung over his shoulder. "Blow away anything that takes a shot at me. I take it you've undergone the marksman course?"_

_Yuri nodded. "Excellent. I think I've identified a leadership cell. With any luck, we can cut off the snake's head and give the rest of the army the chance it needs to take this district, despite our commander's ineptitude," he snarled._

"_Shouldn't we focus on reconnecting with the rest of the army?" Yuri asked as he accepted the rifle._

"_We have an opportunity before us, Corporal. We can wait for our inept leaders to salvage the situation or take destiny ourselves. I've made my decision. What of you, Yuri?"_

The highway was under construction, another project cutting through the country like a strand of wire. The government had long tried to bury that which it couldn't control, an overriding philosophy that garnered respect and contempt in equal measure. For Makarov, seeing the incomplete highway only meant that the convoy would find itself sticking to the cliff-side roads to stay on schedule. As luck would have it, they had a day's head start ahead of the Iron Tigers. While the rest of the group readied the preparations, Makarov had been using an encrypted satellite phone, making preparations with some of the few locals Zakhaev said they could trust. They had enough close calls with the Peoples Armed Police just getting to this point, and completing this operation would just make things even more difficult. General Peng would be everything that stood between them facing incarceration at a distant work camp.

"I think I've got a good line of sight," Yuri announced as Makarov began to disassemble the phone.

"The twins?" Makarov asked.

"The truck is ready. And Viktor has the detcords priming as we speak. That just leaves you and Anatoly. Are you sure you don't want me down there with you?"

"I need someone I can trust on overwatch. Besides, Anatoly may be young, but it's past time he had an opportunity to prove himself. Besides, if we can salvage an MRAP, it should save us some time and energy until we link up with Peng's men."

"OK, if you are sure. Have we figured out the exfil?" Yuri asked.

"Peng has assets in Qingdao. It will take a few days to travel, and we'll have to cycle through some vehicles, but once we get to the port, we get to Vladivostok once we cut through Korea."

"Vladivostok directly? But General Zakhaev…"

"Sulaman is dead, Yuri. I was just informed a few hours ago," Makarov told his ally. "Soon, there will be a leadership struggle. If Zakhaev is not foolish, he'll make his move immediately."

"Move? What move?" Yuri asked. "What does Zakhaev have to do with Al-Qatala?"

"They are a lot like us, Yuri. Very dangerous assets that can be counted on to fulfill their designated roles. Sulaman may have counted Russia as his enemy, but Zakhaev actually agreed with some of his assessments about foreign powers and interventionism. To Zakhaev, Al-Qatala is just a logical step in response to the superpowers, a mobile army of warlords and insurgents. The Mongols for a modern age. And so long as they are pointed towards the West and Moscow, our goals go unimpeded."

"But with the Wolf gone, wouldn't that make the Butcher…"

Makarov snorted, covering his mouth as he caught his breath. Yuri watched as his superior officer tittered. He could count on one hand all the times he had seen Makarov laugh. It didn't take long for Makarov to collect himself, though, and he regained his demeanor.

"…The Wolf was Rahar's primary advocate. Without his leader, Rahar is just an angry child playing at war. He'll fall before he finds his footing as Al-Qatala's leader. No, Zakhaev believes that the way is clear for an old associate of his father's to turn that rabble into a proper force. Keep the west busy while we do what must be done."

"And this new guy is going to help us?" Yuri asked as he saw Anatoly motion that the escort had been sighted.

"If he knows what's good for him, that we are his best chance at survival, he'll come around soon enough."

"Hey, Vladimir?" Yuri asked as he turned back to his position. "Did Zakhaev ever say this guy was a he?"

"…He didn't," Makarov admitted. "To be honest, it's less I think they are a he and more that…" he looked towards Kiril's position. "I hope."

Yuri nodded, understanding. Lev did his best, but his brother had been discharged for a reason. That man was a complete liability where civilians were concerned, like leaving meat on the table and turning your back on the family dog. Makarov generally kept him on a tight leash, largely out of pragmatism. Still, Yuri had never seen Kiril take on a job retaining the slightest moral qualm. Not that he was in any position to do the same, but Yuri had a suspicion Kiril never had trouble sleeping. Lucky him.

The five vehicles approached, hugging the side of the mountain. Two MRAP's in the center, two armored cars in the front with one taking up the rear. Rather than flying the usual colors of the PLA, these dark grey vehicles had four claw mark slashes at various positions to maximize brand awareness. To most of China, the Iron Tigers were a security service designed to augment both Chinese law enforcement and the PLA, depending on the local situation. Founded by state-funded billionaires, some members of the CCP cabinet utilized their services to fly certain projects under the radar.

The transport of MSAKR89 was ordered at the behest of a junior minister, one who had enough sway to undermine the prison system to his whims, but not enough that he could risk doing so with no consequence. That was the wonderful thing about PMCs, though. Another filter through which the powerful could deny culpability. It also denied them access, by and large, to heavier support weapons within Chinese borders. Weapons that could have mitigated the oncoming assault.

As the lead car passed through the lonely street, three strands of cables crossed under the vehicles as they passed over. The resulting line of detonations crippled some tires under one of the MRAPs, causing the one following to rear-end its partner. One of the armored cars, its rear tires having been blown out, careened off the side of the cliff, its fall only having been broken by the guardrails on the side of the road. The last armored car attempted to hit reverse, not taking notice of the pair of flagless commandos planting a C4 charge against the side of its hull, having risen from their position below the roadway on the side of the cliff. A turret gunner on top of the second MRAP was the first to notice the approaching commandos, as well as the first to take a sniper bullet through the skull, his body dropping into the vehicle.

In the front of the convoy, the lead car was blindsided by a rental truck, T-boning the lead escort between its aggressor and the cliff. A large commando dislodged from the back of the truck and began opening fire into the dazed occupants of the armored car, the rounds piercing through chassis and body armor alike.

As the occupants of the following armored car exited their vehicle to attack, the truck's driver and the second occupant exiting the rear engaged them. Their combined fire brought down the security staff right as the C4 charge on the rearguard detonated. With the armored cars disabled, that left only the trapped and wounded MRAPs.

Four mercenaries exited the rear MRAP, armed with submachine guns and sidearms. A flagless commando tackled one to the ground while his partner engaged the rest directly. One guard was kneecapped by a shotgun blast; his wounded body used as leverage and a shield simultaneously as the other commando weaved through the other two, knife at the ready. One had his arm pierced through the muscle between bones, and he winced and drew back as the commando engaged the remaining contractor.

It hadn't even been competitive. The commando threw a total of three expert strikes that deliberately targeted joints, snapping them before the other had even prepared a combat stance. To finish up, the commando drew out his sidearm and executed his opponents, starting with the one with the wounded arm before he could draw his own sidearm, then the one whose limbs had been crippled, finishing with his hostage.

The other mercenary had managed to somewhat reverse his predicament, wrapping his hands around the other commando's neck as he beat his skull against the pavement. A sniper bullet buried itself into the mercenary's ribs, allowing the commando to draw out his knife and finish off his opponent. Anatoly rolled off the mercenary from his body, standing up to see Makarov had finished off the rest of the squad single-handedly. "Good job," Makarov replied in a tone that didn't seem to come off as condescending, Anatoly noted with some embarrassed relief. It was at this point that the driver of the MRAP left his vehicle, and seeing the rest of his squad had been killed, surrendered.

That left only the final MRAP in the middle of the convoy. The five commandos regrouped around it, Viktor grabbing and hauling the driver out behind the wheel. Surrounding the back, Makarov motioned for Lev to plant charges on the back of the hull. As the hinges were covered, Makarov had a flashbang primed and readied. The moment the charges went off, he threw the grenade expertly within the gap the moment it appeared. He and Kiril charged forward, both climbing into the back as they engaged the dazed contractors. Makarov expertly cut mortal blows into the mercenaries on his half of the vehicle while Kiril settled for bludgeoning on his end. He had been so focused on his work that he didn't see the pair of bare feet climbing out from the turret stairway until it was too late.

Yuri watched as a small figure in an orange jumpsuit dragged their body from the MRAP as Makarov was securing it. With Viktor tending to the prisoners and Anatoly and Lev distracted by the bloodbath within the vehicle, Yuri took it upon himself to dissuade their target from doing anything stupid. He fired a shot just right below where they were about to put down their foot, the sudden jolt and rush of the ricochet knocking them from the driver's canopy. They fell on the road right by Viktor. Viktor grabbed her by the scruff of her collar, as he looked the prisoner over. She looked exhausted, dehydrated, and smelled like she hadn't had a bath in months. She snarled at him and tried to squirm away, only for the big man to wrap his forearm around her neck and secure her. "We have the prisoner secured!" Viktor spoke in English.

Makarov exited the MRAP, flanked by Anatoly who had grown a little disturbed by Kiril's enthusiastic brutality, and by Lev who had grown bored. Makarov took one look at the prisoner, closed his eyes to hide his apprehension with the knowledge of her identity and what it would mean going forward, and ordered Viktor to release her.

"…MSAKR89, I presume?" Makarov spoke, also in English.

The small woman looked at him, unable to bury the recognition that crossed her face in time. "…Who are you? I don't know anything. Leave me alone and don't kill me," she exclaimed in Mandarin.

"Don't play dumb," Makarov spoke in kind. "My Mandarin is sloppy, and I know you must be able to speak English."

The woman looked at him, unnerved by the knowledge that not even a language barrier could protect her. "…Fine. Who are you?" she spoke in English.

"Friends of a friend of your friend," Makarov explained as he glanced at her handcuffs. "Call us your guardian angels."

The woman glanced around at the number of dead bodies surrounding them. "I can feel fortune smile upon me," she muttered under her breath in Mandarin.

The commandos had to work quickly in the aftermath of the shootout. As Yuri scaled down the mountainside below, the rest of the team was hard at work clearing the road of the wrecked vehicles and debris. Makarov had ordered that he and Yuri would commandeer one of the armored cars with the prisoner while the rest would take the undamaged MRAP.

"Yuri, get behind the wheel," Makarov ordered as he pushed the prisoner into the back seat. "Take this thirty kilometers to the east, then ditch it. That should give us enough time before they track it remotely. We'll find a new car afterward. You…" he stared at the prisoner. "Keep your head down and don't compromise us."

The woman was about to say something, thought against it, and submitted to his wishes, ducking down below the seat, placing her head against the floor."

"Same goes to the rest of you," Makarov called out to the rest of his team. "The MRAP will draw even more attention, so ditch it in twenty. Keep a low profile and stay on your best behavior. You draw attention from the PAP, I will leave you behind," he stated as he joined Yuri in the car, speeding through the gap left by the recently separated accident before them.

"Elitist prick," Anatoly groused as he popped the hood of the MRAP and searched for the tracker. "Leaves us to fend for ourselves while he and Yuri take the woman for themselves."

"You think that's what they're doing?" Viktor asked as he leaned against the side of the vehicle. "Makarov prefers to lead from the front. If the Chinese catch wind about what happened before we are ready for it, he'll be the first to know and the first to adjust the plan before the blowback hits us."

"OK, so why leave us in the dark for so long?" Anatoly asked as he fished out the device just under the engine.

"He'd prefer if we just focused on being reflexive and adaptable," Viktor shrugged. "He prefers to handle the long term himself. I'd know, seeing as I've been with him the longest, after all. Apart from Yuri."

"What is it with those two anyway?" Anatoly asked as he examined the tracker. "I know we make jokes but are those two… well…"

Viktor snorted. "Yuri is the only person I've ever met who can keep up with a motivated Makarov. In return, Yuri is the only person who Makarov has ever trusted implicitly. If Makarov wanted to solo the convoy himself, Yuri is the only one he'd have requested for backup."

"Because Yuri is Makarov's sub to his dom," Anatoly muttered under his breath.

"Because Yuri is the only other person in this group you should never pick a fight with. Did we ever tell you about Andrei?" Viktor asked.

"Your old computer geek, I heard. What did he do to piss off Makarov?" Anatoly asked.

"Started talking to people he shouldn't have been talking to, telling them things he shouldn't have been telling them. Not long after I joined, Makarov found out Andrei was set to be extracted by a black operations unit. Yuri alone was sent to dissuade them. Tell me, Anatoly, you know how to kill a squad of operators, single-handedly? Ask Yuri, he can tell you. Of course, that'll be the second favor you owe him for today," he chuckled.

Anatoly growled at the bigger man. "Whatever you say. I had the situation under control." He threw the tracker off the cliff. "And this should buy us some extra time."

"What about them?" Viktor asked as he indicated the two prisoners guarded by the twins.

Anatoly did the honors, the rest of the gang leaving the bodies where they lay as they sped off to link back up with Makarov.

Character Bio: Vladimir Makarov

DOB: July 16th, 1984

Height: 1.56 meters

Weight: 82 kg

Affiliations: VDV, Spetsnaz GRU, Lost Souls Battalion

Graduated with honors from the Suvorov Military School of Yekaterinburg, Makarov served with distinction in the Volslage Conflict of 2010. Joining the Spetsnaz GRU later, Makarov's military career came to an abrupt end regarding an incident in Beirut, Lebanon. Details surrounding the incident have been redacted, only that a handful of Russian special operators were urged to resign under pressure from Moscow. Disappearing off the grid in the following years, rumor within the Special Forces community tells of a "Lost Souls Battalion," an organization acting as a haven for Russian military assets that have, for various reasons, fallen out of favor with the government. Typically said to be based somewhere within Asia Minor, unconfirmed sightings of Makarov have been issued globally, especially in recent years.


	4. Decoy

Chapter 4: Decoy

Yuri sat behind the wheel of the recently procured truck, tapping his hand impatiently on the wheel as Makarov checked the house. It was approaching nightfall, and Makarov didn't want to risk leapfrogging from vehicle to vehicle. So he looked for a hideout to lay low in. Thankfully, the village they had passed through had been subject to an economic recession, leaving the population decimated and many homes abandoned. Makarov was looking for a prospective location well on the outskirts of town, checking to see if it was to his liking.

"…Is he back yet?" Hostage asked as she peaked up from the back seat.

"Stay down," Yuri dryly scolded.

"I'm getting cramped. The transport had more legroom than this," Hostage complained.

"Are you really complaining about the accommodations?" Yuri asked.

"I'm sick of staring at the carpeting," Hostage replied.

Yuri let out a breathless snort. He saw the flashlight peer through the brush; the series of clicks sending the all-clear signal.

"Well, you are in luck," Yuri exclaimed as he climbed out of the cabin. He opened the passenger's back door, grabbing Hostage by the back of her jumpsuit as she hauled her out of the vehicle.

"I can get out just fine on my own!" she mewled.

"Keep your voice down!" Yuri hissed as he glanced at the dirt road they traveled through. This was a low traffic area, which was invaluable to Makarov as they waited to regroup with the rest of the squad. Once their R&R here was completed, it would be a straight shot to Qingdao.

Makarov had already opened the front door. The only signs of life that had remained in the building were the scant traces of squatters who had long since left. The house itself was practically empty; save for some empty food cans and some stained mattresses. A breaker snapped, and a light bulb flickered above them, attracting a lonely moth to its warmth.

Makarov rounded the corner. "Plumbing is still good, though we should keep the electrical usage to a minimum. Reception is horrible, so I'll be heading to the roof to reestablish contact with our support."

"Who are you working with?" Hostage asked. Yuri boxed her on the ear. "Enough out of you. I'll guard the hostage and get dinner ready."

Makarov climbed up the side of the one-story cabin. From that point, he began reassembling the satellite phone, this time alternating in another counterfeit SIM card before snapping the phone together. He scratched the antennae against his temple, trying to jog his memory as to the number General Zakhaev provided. Satisfied, he dialed in the number. The phone let out a few beeps, Makarov worrying that his hideout was too effective. He only relaxed when the other end connected, and a voice began speaking into the line, this one speaking Kazakh.

"Commander Bashir. Get him," Makarov growled in Russian. The Lost Souls Battalion was essentially designated a terrorist organization by the international community, and as such wasn't one capable of making allies easily. One of the relationships that they had managed to establish was with an al-Qatala splinter faction that had gone by the moniker "039 Brigade." For lack of a more accurate nomenclature, the 039 was the closest thing al-Qatala had to a special forces program. Under the leadership of one of Zakhaev's associates, eager and ambitious young radicals could be turned into talented and professional insurgents, escaping the fate of the disposable rebels and partisans headed straight for the international aerial meat grinder.

"D'yavol," the voice on the other end spoke in Russian. "Fate is cruel if you are still with us."

"Are your teams in the area?" Makarov asked, cutting straight to the point.

"I have men who can draw the attention of the tiger and slip from its fangs. That said, you will owe it to them to escape before they find themselves in its jaws."

"And deny them the opportunity to die facing one of the world's greatest tyrants?" Makarov asked.

"The Eternal wishes his bodyguards to be experienced before putting their lives on the line for his service, they are not disposable assets," Bashir explained.

"Then their abilities to survive the diversions they instigate should be indicative to your abilities as an instructor as well as an assessment of their overall competence," Makarov announced.

Bashir snarled over the line. The former Jordanian commando was known for being hot-headed and aggressive, in addition to being ideologically susceptible to Sulaman's teachings. He was inducted into the organization due to a need to create a terror cell capable of effectively countering the various international special forces they would conflict with. Despite his best efforts, Makarov thought with derision, the "best of his best" couldn't hope to hold a candle against those like himself or Captain Price.

"…How long will it take your group to exfil?" Bashir hissed over the line.

"A day or two. Three if something catastrophic happens," Makarov answered.

"…My men can target some checkpoints in the west. That should gain the majority of their attention. Do not make me regr-" Makarov cut the line before Bashir finished. What al-Qatala's insurgent commander failed to appreciate was that his group still had a long way to go before Makarov considered them equal allies. It was telling that all the grueling training Bashir put his men though would, at best, put them on an imitative level of a US marine or ranger, only without the support or backing to even equalize that gap. The group wouldn't survive a war of attrition against a motivated opposition, and if Bashir's plan to supplement his counterfeit commandos into disposable terror cells went through, the men he took so much pride in training would be exterminated by people who actually knew how to fight at the highest levels.

Yuri readied the heating packs as he began mixing some of the drinks. He looked through the paltry menu spread out before him. Cherry mix, tea, and coffee. He laid some of the heating packs under the small plastic cups, warming up the water before mixing in the tea and coffee.

"What is that?" Hostage asked as she stared at the strange lump in the center of the tray.

"…Meat," Yuri answered, fishing out a pack of cold oatmeal cereal.

"I gathered, but what kind? Pork? Chicken? Beef?" Hostage continued.

"…Meat," Yuri answered.

"…Don't you want to try and cook it first?" Hostage continued.

"…It's good for you," Yuri answered.

"You don't know what it is, do you?" Hostage assessed.

Yuri looked over hostage. "If the meal isn't to your liking, may I suggest an alternative by way of inhaling the dust around you?"

Hostage groused but relented, holding out her bound hands for a plastic cup. Yuri parted with one, and hostage began slurping down the lukewarm tea. "It tastes awful," Hostage gasped in between greedy sips.

"…Who are you?" Yuri asked.

Hostage placed the cup beside her as she finished. "…I suppose you know my screen name?"

"MSAKR89, my leader told me such. Who are you, though? Some scrawny teenager is all I'm looking at."

Hostage bristled. "Teenager?! I'll have you know that I happen to be twenty-six."

Yuri looked up and down her body. He would have guessed fifteen-year-old boy. Then again, maybe it came down to poor grooming and lack of hygiene. He wasn't familiar with the condition of Chinese black-site prisons and was in no rush to remedy it.

"So, do you know who we are?" Yuri asked.

Hostage was about to answer but stopped. Yuri had noticed that she hadn't been particularly shocked by the nature and manner of her extraction, so on some level, she had to have been expecting one. The question was; were they who she was expecting? And if the answer was no; who was?

"…Mercenaries," Hostage answered. "Unverifiable assets who can be plausibly denied."

"Yes, and the sky is blue and water is wet," Yuri answered, not impressed by her generic answer. "Do you know who we are?" he repeated.

Hostage took a breath before she balked. "I was stuck in a hole for the last two months. The only contacts I had were imaginary. I have no idea who you are, and I don't want to care," she answered as she reached for the cereal-tin.

Yuri pushed it out of her reach. "Good little girls answer questions," Yuri taunted dryly.

Hostage glared at him. "…What's going to happen to me?" she asked.

"That depends on you," Makarov said as he re-entered the cabin. Yuri scooted aside to make room for Makarov to sit across from Hostage, whose stomach by now was growing more and more audible. Makarov sat down, shooting a look at Yuri to continue preparing the MRE, and turned to stare down hostage.

"Let me make one thing clear; you are not in a position to negotiate. You are either with us or a liability. Until we assess your character and trustworthiness, you will be under my watch at all times. If I believe you are lying to me or attempting to mislead or hinder us in any way, I will ensure that the last moments of your life will be in agonizing pain. Do not test me," Makarov brusquely rumbled. Hostage broke eye contact. Yuri didn't blame her, Makarov had that effect.

"…That being said," Makarov said as he fished into his side pouch. "Now that I've explained the stick, I would rather we entertain the carrot," he explained as he pulled out a dark chocolate protein bar. He extended it towards Hostage, who took the bar and began tearing into it, spitting out the plastic she tore with her mouth.

"We have every intent to extract you. We will take you somewhere the CCP cannot hope to locate you, and we have enough defensive capabilities to make any attempt at reclaiming you… unattractive. Our contact, the one who recommended you to us, implied that you had skills that would make you invaluable to our goals, and that you might not be… ideologically opposed to using your abilities to better our cause."

Hostage looked up from savoring the month's old bar. "…Let me get one thing straight. Whatever you've been told about me, I am not a traitor. I am a patriot who puts her country over her government."

Makarov held out his hands to placate her. "I understand. Our allies only wished to keep you out of your government's grasp."

"…And for that, I am grateful," Hostage replied as she held her gaze down. "I suppose it was only a manner of time before my jailers forced me to break my back or… put me on it…" she trailed off.

"Let me say that you shall not need such concerns with us," Makarov interjected. "We are all of us professionals, and your wellbeing and safety will be guaranteed with your enthusiastic and voluntary cooperation." Yuri had heard this before. If Hostage was smart, she would pick up the unspoken threat. Hostage knew she didn't have much of a choice.

"…My name is Fei Huang. I was a lieutenant in the PLA Strategic Support Force. My job had been to find weaknesses in the PLA's network security, via acting as a black hat towards system admins and programs."

"So you were an Internet aggressor squadron?" Yuri spoke up.

"In a manner of speaking," Fei admitted. "I got really into my job, I'd always had a knack for computers and liked exploiting the weaknesses of those who thought they were invincible. That's pretty much where I got in trouble."

"See, I was mostly trained to engage in cyber warfare against the military, but some friends of mine had me help them on developing a viral code that could render the network infrastructure of any given developing nation inert, collapsing their economies and providing ample opportunities for our government to step in and sponsor the reconstruction. I had always had ethical concerns, but this project could have ruined countless lives just so some council members and their pet billionaires could line their pockets. So I took a chunk of the code and began using it against our "Great Firewall."

At this moment, Fei began to sound giddy, gleeful that she could tell of her exploits to an audience. "I managed to get three ministers to resign and exposed that weapons program. I managed to circumvent the state news broadcasting networks and got users the opportunity to navigate to blacklisted sources. I anonymously posted cartoons of bears on social media. And I filtered so much… Japanese adult entertainment, just because I was feeling a little cheeky," she bragged.

Yuri rolled his eyes. "Truly, you are the voice of your generation. I'm so glad we've gone through all this trouble to spring a nerdy prankster out of detention."

"No," Fei shook her head. "What I did went far beyond a handful of mean-spirited hacks. As I worked, I began to realize something. That China is at the cusp change; it desires to find its destiny, to make decisions for itself and of its own volition. The only thing keeping that from manifesting is the CPC because people are too afraid of it to challenge them. What I did was show that even the mighty CPC isn't invincible. And that is why they locked me up."

"…You went to school in America, didn't you?" Makarov asked.

"…What gave me away?" Fei smiled, sadly. "I'm the last thing an authoritarian government wants to deal with; a libertarian socialist."

"So, what you are telling us is that this is all an issue of clout," Yuri began. "And by failing to keep a lid on you, your government will come off as less competent than others when dealing with whistleblowers and dissidents, which will hurt their credibility far more than all the stuff you've been able to do yourself?"

"You're smarter than you look," Fei grinned. "Of course, we won't be dealing with the PLA. The ministers overseeing my imprisonment will be sending their lackeys to re-apprehend me."

"The Iron Tigers. I can't say I'm impressed," Yuri sniffed.

"Well, best we stay off the grid before they get the hammer," Fei replied as she snuck another cereal-tin from under Yuri's nose.

"…And what about you, Fei," Makarov asked. "Are there any friends you have who could offer us aid?"

Fei looked down at the tin as she dug the key into the side of the lid and began prying the seal off. "…After I was disavowed, most of my old comrades probably couldn't remember having worked alongside me, especially the ones who had families. I doubt even my own would recognize me."

"And in all of your efforts to undermine your government, have you happened to make contact with any… external groups?" Makarov asked.

"No," Fei said, flatly.

Makarov stared at her. Yuri felt the temperature begin to drop. He stared at Makarov's hands, both resting on either a side-arm or a knife. All Fei had was a tin of oatmeal and a cheap plastic spoon. Yuri tried to place his arm on Vladimir's shoulder and attempt to dissuade any further interrogation, but Vladimir merely shrugged and began helping himself to the cooked meat on the tray.

"…Suppose we gave you access to a computer," Vladimir began as he stirred the carrion slurry in front of him. "What would that mean for us?"

Fei looked up. "…Well, I'm going to need specifications. Using public broadband would be a death sentence for all of us. We'd need hardware first, and the further off the market it is, the better. Once we get that, I can handle the software myself."

"And as a black hat, you know how to attack military networks," Makarov continued. "Do you think you can attack a specific target once you get situated?"

"I'd figure you'd want to lay low before doing anything risky?" Fei asked.

Makarov closed the distance between them, resting his hands on her shoulders. "Fei, your safety and well-being is my top priority. As a woman without a country, you will find out just how unforgiving living outside the law can be. In this life, it pays to have friends you can trust. I've been doing this for a long time, Fei, and you don't do this for a long time without being very, very smart and very, very careful. Now, answer honestly, do you trust me?"

Fei Huang looked into the eyes of her new jailor. He was doing everything in his power to convince her she was a partner in whatever he was running, but the truth was she had no say in her future. She was this man's slave, indefinitely. The only real choice she had going forward was whether she would be chattel or an invaluable servant. From this day forward, her only priority would be survival. "…Yes."


	5. Opposing Force

Chapter 5: Opposing Force

In 1996, South Korea found itself rocked by economic upheavals and student-backed protests for social reform. The country found itself vulnerable, and with its domestic issues occupying the forefront of the nation's mind, its northern neighbor believed it had an opportunity to claim territory in its drive to forcibly reunify the country. Believing that Beijing and Moscow would intervene on its behalf in the UN and that the international community was thoroughly occupied by the Saudi Uprising, thus being unwilling to intervene, North Korean troops smashed through the 38th Parallel, its armored divisions quickly punching through the scattered and unprepared South Korean military and quickly besieging Seoul.

The first to rally around the shattered remnants of the ROKA was the Japanese Self-Defense Force and ANZAC support, landing at the southern end of the peninsula and digging in their heels against the oncoming attack, holding out long enough for the US, Canada, British, French, and Germans to rally together a task force to form a counter-offensive, though special forces had been inserted behind enemy lines to disrupt enemy activity from the onset. As the coalition arrived, and aerial attacks began dismantling North Korean forces south of the border, the regime leadership began to change tactics, creating an insurgency modeled after organizations like the Viet Cong to stall and lock down the advancing coalition troops, even as they prepared their defenses against the imminent southern invasion.

As it turned out, the real threat came from the north, as China-backed and sponsored a quick but bloody coup within Pyongyang, ousting the previous regime and replacing it with a pro-Beijing military junta, who then ordered an immediate ceasefire. All territory taken by the north was returned, all nuclear programs in the nation were permanently shuttered, and North Korea effectively became a modern-day vassal to the Peoples Republic of China.

Of course, in the decades that followed, tensions remained high along the border. South Korea redoubled its military, modernizing its equipment and training, In order to keep up with top-of-the-line standards, an international garrison was established to ensure that world-class peacekeepers would always be on hand instruct, advise, and assist as needed.

The bus pulled through the main entrance. Its occupants were largely French and German, with the sole exception a Brit. Their plane had touched down six hours ago, and they'd only now just gotten off the road. They were logistical staff, mostly IT guys and data analysts save for the sole exception, again.

The Brit slung his rifle over his shoulder as he grabbed his duffel bags. He generally packed light, and he figured the six-month tour would do him some good to get away from Manchester for a little. Sure, he was missing out on exterminating Al-Qatala, but he'd requested this assignment years ago, and the staff rotations as such had only now just gotten around to it.

A Korean junior officer was directing the arrivals to various points in the base with a rudimentary grasp on their languages. As he approached, the officer took one look at him before annoyance flashed over his face. "You new SAS?" the officer asked in a clipped tone. He nodded.

"You will be assigned to barrack D on the western end. Major Park would like to meet with you but shall be occupied until 2100. In the meantime, your partner is likely in the rec hall, near the center."

"Thank you, sir," he nodded.

The officer muttered something under his breath in Korean before going back to tend to the rest of the offloaded staff. The man sighed before deciding it would be best to locate his alleged partner and familiarize himself with the base.

* * *

Buchner glared over his cards as he glanced over the rest of his crew. Normally, poker was a free for all, but national pride dictated sending the islander packing from the table first. Schaffer went first; a meager pair of fives was all he could offer. Fleisher went next, him with two jacks. Buchner stared down the islander as Krauss put down three fours. Buchner then laid down his cards. Flush, two, five, seven, jack and ace, all hearts. "…Your move, sheep-fucker," the tank commander goaded.

The Scot took a swig from the paper cup before him. "For the last time, kraut, that's the Welsh. I just eat the best bits. Also…" he laid down his cards. Twos in queens. Full house.

The Germans all slapped the table as the Scot helped himself to the meal tickets and six-pack, now down to four. Interservice fraternization wasn't especially encouraged, but the operator and tank crew had worked together long enough to become somewhat familiar with each other, at least in the friendly coworker sense. They didn't know each other's birthdays, their marital relationships, or their political inclinations, but they knew some light personal details, like arrest records and who they fooled around with on the side.

"OK, next game," Krauss said as he collected and began shuffling the cards. "Winner gets sent one of MacTavish's personal photos."

"Deal. While we're at it, take the whole girl, too," MacTavish sniffed. "Club rules say that she was supposed to have left in the morning… two years ago," he complained to himself as he awaited his cards.

A bearded commando entered the mess hall, prompting some tired looking locals to eye him up before going back to their business. He saw the five playing in the center and noticed that one matched the description he had been given by one of the local attendants after he offloaded his things in the barracks. The Mohawk was a dead giveaway.

"…Lieutenant?" the soldier asked as he approached. The big man leaned back to eye up at the approaching Mancunian. "…You the new guy?"

"Yes, sir. My name is…"

"You fuck any of the local girls, yet?"

"…Sir?"

"That's why you're here, anyway. Your predecessor couldn't keep his willy in his pants or keep things below the level. That's what happened to Sergeant Doyle, gentlemen," he announced as he leaned towards the snickering Germans.

"So, that's why he was so late coming back from leave," Schaffer giggled.

"She was eighteen, I promise." Fleisher mocked to the laughter of the crew.

"Well, let me just call a rain check on the game, help the FNG get situated," MacTavish said as he threw down his cards. The Sergeant bristled at the term. He had heard rumors that his immediate superior on the ship was rather unorthodox, but he also seemed rather lax, to the point of carelessness.

"So, how's things at Hereford?" MacTavish asked he strolled to the vending machine.

"Quiet. Kind of surprising, y'know, considering the state of the world," the soldier offered.

"Not really if you consider who they got covering that mess in the east. Pick your poison, my treat," MacTavish offered.

"….Gatorade, I guess," the soldier shrugged as if the machine had other options.

MacTavish inserted the credit, slammed a random button, and a bottle of hydrogenated electrolytes hit the bottom. MacTavish looked enviously at the catch. Blue, the best flavor. As he tossed it to the new guy, he looked him over. "How's Griffen and Wallcroft doing?"

"On standby. They're both sitting pretty antsy, neither of them got to raid the local safehouses or head out towards Urzikstan. I think they both kind of hated my guts, seeing as I got the last ticket from MacMillan to join the garrison here."

MacTavish chuckled. "…I don't think I recognize you. Must be one of the newer guys since I left. Name?"

"Gary Sanderson, Sergeant."

MacTavish shook his head. "…Name," he emphasized.

Gary caught his meaning and fought back a tired sigh. "…Roach."

MacTavish fought back a laugh, out of courtesy. "…May I ask why?"

"That's classified."

MacTavish nodded his head, respectfully. "That is the correct answer. Lieutenant John MacTavish. I'll also answer to Soap."

Roach snapped the cap as Soap input another selection, this time getting yellow, the third-worst flavor. "So, you get situated, yet?" Soap asked as he bounced his drink in his hand.

"Just got here a half-hour ago. I know it's an international garrison and we're about fifty clicks out from the DMZ. I've already read through the briefings about three times on the plane, and another on the bus. Got anything to tell me?"

Soap grinned. "Just get some rest, Roach, because tomorrow we're going to be bad guys."

* * *

The docks by Qingdao had been requisitioned by the PLA, sighting security concerns regarding terrorist attacks in recent days. Being within the jurisdiction of one General Peng, he assigned one Major Wei to oversee all operations within the harbor. To Peng, Wei's loyalty was matched only by his discretion. As he helped himself to a cigarette in the early morning hours, staring out into the waterfront, a brutish looking individual approached him. One of the "rogue assets," who had arrived some time ago. This one's name was Viktor Karamazov. Wei turned to look him over, flicking the simmering butt into the murky water before him. "Any word from our commander?" Viktor asked.

"No sign yet, mercenary. What are you doing outside, anyway? Do you want to get spotted and get both of us in the shit?" Wei asked, dryly.

Viktor shook his head. "Our driver was able to ensure that our pursuers are looking to the north for us. He's young but experienced in most vehicular manners."

"Good for him. The Iron Tigers have some limited autonomy within China's borders, and they are the ones you should be looking out for," Wei explained.

"Well, once that charter plane you are arranging comes through, it should be right about the time we leave this city. Straight shot to Russia?" Viktor asked.

"It'll be a supply plane landing just north of the DMZ, near Inchon," Wei explained. "Not to worry, you will be surrounded by friends."

Viktor was concerned, seeing as wading into possibly the most militarized nation on Earth presented its own risks and challenges. Once there, they would technically be at the mercy of the "friends" of their "friends." The NK junta had been severely isolated at the end of the Second Korean War, with only a handful of roads to China making up its trade. Information within the country was severely restricted, and Viktor didn't feel like a tourist.

Satisfied, or at least convinced that the conversation was over, Viktor headed back to the warehouse with the rest of his squad. They had converted a corner of the facility into a makeshift break area, complete with some dirty couches, a suspect refrigerator, and a static-filled television that Lev was working over while Anatoly cycled through the channels.

"News… Reality contest… English news… historical drama… oh, kung-fu movie!" Anatoly exclaimed in delight. Kiril had already passed out on the couch, so it was only the three of them together as they fished out some flat beers from the fridge and shot the shit together.

"So…" Lev began. "New girl… what do you guys think?" he asked.

"Bit too wiry for my tastes," Anatoly said. "And short. I need some legs, you know what I mean?"

Viktor shrugged. "Never underestimate small women. They can be like Napoleon, always eager to overachieve and impress."

"Yeah, compared to you, they're all small," Lev snarked.

"OK, well, what about you and killer?" Anatoly asked.

"Me? Well, I think she's alright and…" he glanced over to his brother. "…I'd be out of line if I spoke on Kiril's behalf," he grinned.

"I can only imagine the shit he must've pulled to get the boot from Urzikstan," Anatoly whistled.

"Let's just say they never proved anything," Lev laughed, darkly. "But encouraged his resignation nonetheless."

"And I suspect you joined him out of brotherly love?" Anatoly jeered.

"No, just some… minor miscalculations on the payroll," Lev smiled, innocently. "One misplaced decimal point and an extra zero and suddenly I'm the scum of the GRU!"

Viktor snorted. "So that's what you're going with?"

Lev's smile started to fade. "…Care to share with the class, Vik?"

"…No, I hate gossip," Viktor replied as he reclined in his chair.

"…Well, I showed mine, now it's time for yours, rookie," Lev turned to Anatoly.

Anatoly snapped the beer open. "…I got a raw deal. HQ says I committed a hit and run. Complete bullshit."

"I know the feeling," Lev said as he extended his hand to Anatoly's shoulder.

"Right? I didn't run. I made sure the bitch was dead!" Anatoly explained.

Anatoly and Lev let out a howl of laughter. Kiril stirred briefly while Viktor focused on the program.

A few hours later, a van pulled into the warehouse, the guards outside discreetly shuttering all doors and windows. The driver hopped out, stretching after having driven for so long. "Yo, Yuri!" Lev called out as the driver turned to them. Yuri gave a polite half-smile before turning to the back of the van. Makarov was the first out, scanning over the hollow warehouse. As he approached the four, they immediately stood at attention.

"Status report. What's our supply situation? How many populated areas did you go through? Did you engage anyone at all? Witnesses? Did you dispose of any assets? How? Any witnesses? Did you…"

Yuri couldn't help but smirk. Makarov's relentless questioning was one of the ways he kept his men in line. He wouldn't have brought them along if he didn't think they could work to his standards, but this way his men would be encouraged to think the way Makarov would want them to think. In truth, Vladimir wasn't the hardass he tended to act like. Hard to be a disciplinarian when dealing with war criminals and outlaws. If something became an issue, Vladimir would just shoot you.

Fei hopped out of the van. The two had acquired a pair of jeans, some sneakers, and a bomber jacket in place of her old prison jumpsuit. It made her look even more like a teenage boy, but considering the circumstances, she would learn to deal. She stood by Yuri as the men stumbled over one another to try and answer their commanding officer.

"So, who's the one I need to watch out for?" Fei asked as Yuri leaned against the van.

"Kiril would be first, followed by his brother Lev, and then the young guy, Anatoly," Yuri suggested.

"What about the big guy?" she asked.

"Viktor will keep you secure in the event you are separated from Makarov or myself," Yuri answered.

Fei nodded. "…So, when do we leave?"

"Before tonight," Yuri replied to the best of his knowledge. "We'll take you north and from there, well, it'll be a surprise."

Fei snorted. "…I'm never coming home again, am I?"

Yuri looked at her. "…I'm not the one who can answer that," he admitted.

Fei paused. Yuri looked her over. Hacker or not, on some level he knew Fei loved her country. Being branded a traitor was going to be hard enough, if her government ever got a bead on her, she would be hunted for the rest of her life. She would survive, but her life as she knew it was over.

"…Fuck them," Fei finally relented. "Good riddance," she kept telling herself. "I'm better off without it. If I never as much as see the words "social credit," it'll be too soon," she sniffed.

"That's the spirit," Yuri half-heartedly cheered as dryly as possible.

"I mean it. Whatever hovel you are going to dump me in will be infinitely more preferable to living under this weak government pretending to be strong," Fei continued, trying to bolster her morale and forget she was essentially being kidnapped.

"You might not think that once we put you to work," Yuri muttered. "We can promise you a warm bed and regular meals, but not a clean conscience. Not to mention you will be dealing with Makarov regularly if not our employers."

"…What do you guys do, anyway?" Fei asked.

"…Proactive instigation," Yuri tried to explain.

"…Terrorism," Fei translated.

"To Makarov, there is little ethical or moral difference between state-sponsored military occupation and an independent radical attack. As he sees it, the meddling of the superpowers breeds the resentment that encourages terrorists. You following the Urzik conflict?" he asked.

Fei nodded.

"As far as Makarov is concerned, Al-Qatala is merely the bastard child of Roman Barkov, every bit as the various cartels in South and Central America are the spawn of the United States, the IRA to Britain, pretty much any hostile native faction in an area touched by the Cold War is a reaction to having been brutalized and discarded by the reigning superpowers. If a foreign power encroaches on one's sovereignty, those who take up arms against them have every right to expulse the occupiers regardless of consequences. That is what Makarov believes, regardless of flags."

"And you believe that?" Fei asked.

"Yuri!" Makarov called out. "The plane is ready! Get Fei ready, we will be leaving in the next hour!"

* * *

As Major Wei watched the cargo plane taxi onto the runway, he reached into his pocket as he felt his phone begin to shudder. On it, he saw that he had a text.

_Vacation underway?_

Wei typed his response.

_Tearful farewell._

_Parting gift?_

Wei looked at the briefcase by his knees. With it, Fei would have all the tools she needed to wreak havoc on the CPC with impunity. He'd make the handoff as she left.

_Wrapped delicately._

_Pray for safety. Unforeseen Consequences._

Wei winced as he read the final line. A dangerous game was about to begin, and none of their "friends" were any wiser. He looked to the east across the water and wondered how this gamble was due to play out.


	6. Honesty

Chapter 6: Honesty

The transport craft hit some turbulence, shaking the hull as Fei steadied her monitor. Having spent so long in isolation, she used the encrypted wireless service to finally catch up on how recent events had developed in her incarceration. As usual, the mighty and powerful CPC was all-knowing and infallible, she said to herself as she rolled her eyes. Still, she didn't find anything regarding an attack on a remote highway several days ago. Mostly the news was relegated to several attacks along western outposts. Most likely some unfortunate minority group would get stuck with the blame, she sniffed.

She peered up from her monitor to see Yuri staring at her, looking away the instant after they made eye contact. The brothers were sitting near some of the strapped down cargo, whispering to one another as Anatoly tried to insert himself into whatever the conversation was. Viktor had taken up three seats to try and nap. Makarov had apparently snaked some headphones from under his gear and sat in a trance-like state as he listened to whatever was playing.

Rubbing her eyes, Fei closed the computer. Standing to stretch, she walked over to Yuri, sitting beside him. Yuri glanced away, forcing Fei to hold back a laugh. "…I'm thirsty," she said, motioning for his canteen.

"Why are you asking me?" Yuri replied.

"You said not to trust those three," she motioned to the bickering half of the squad. "And I don't want to disturb the big guy or your boss."

"So what does that make me, your babysitter?" Yuri asked.

Fei opened her mouth, imitating a baby bird. Yuri relented, passing her his canteen. She took a few swigs before returning it to its owner. "Thank you," she replied in Mandarin. "Where are we landing?"

"North of the 38th," Yuri explained.

Fei pursed her lips. "You have an issue with that?" Yuri asked.

"The junta is Beijing's lapdog. We had to drag their country into this century kicking and screaming, ousting the ruling family and forcibly shuttering their nuclear programs. In exchange, their country's military has been modernized and modeled after the PLA. No such luck for social or agricultural programs, I'm afraid," Fei sniffed.

"North Korea remains a holdout for a war that ended years ago," Makarov explained, causing Fei to jump and Yuri to look behind him, unsurprised. "A buffer zone and ally of convenience against the enemies of your country, and mine if we are honest," he smirked.

"You think people would be over the Cold War by now," Yuri groaned.

"People always crave external threats. With little exception, they are far easier to comprehend and combat than those internally. Who has time for a rebellion or civil war when a threat to your very way of life looms just over the horizon?" Makarov asked, rhetorically.

"China is in little position to survive a sustained war with the United States, let alone extended campaigns against our neighbors," Fei scoffed. "Which further renders the PLA's extended chest-pounding tedious."

"And yet, no one wants to fight China directly, relying on independent elements to kill their mercenaries to free their prisoners," Makarov smiled.

"Since I can't get a straight answer out of your pet," Fei motioned to Yuri, "I figure I may as well ask you; who are you people?"

Makarov looked to the rest of the crew, immersed within themselves to pay them any mind. He turned back to the Chinese hacker, motioning Yuri to surrender his seat to his commanding officer.

"We were originally a wet-works squad," Makarov began, taking Yuri's seat. "Plausible deniability, no names, you understand," he continued. "Usually, we were attached to monitor Moscow's foreign interests, which allowed us to spend a lot of time down south. We played nice with a few, and didn't with most others. My primary goal, Miss Huang, is to prove that orthodoxy does not equate with effectiveness…"

_The dirty white sedan barreled over the dirt roads. Giving a flock of sheep a wide berth, Sgt. Jack Claycomb checked his rear-view for any interlopers. He kept the radio just under his dashboard, the receiver not leaving his hand. He glanced at the Kalashnikov resting on his passenger's seat, having resorted to using local equipment to not further blow his cover. As if a dark-skinned American with a French nationality didn't raise enough eyebrows._

_Lebanon was in the midst of what would eventually be dubbed by the media as the Dead Sea Uprising. Foreign fighters from across the region had overtaken a handful of fundamentalist organizations and began reforming them into the single largest terror cell since ISIS. Naturally, the developed world wasn't thrilled by the notion, and though they publicly gave support for the regional governments, behind the scenes the territories were awash in foreign soldiers of a different stripe. Despite being an American-born French citizen (his former employer did wonders for him that most customs departments could not) the coalition contingent he was a part of was commanded by a Brit, who went by the name of Lieutenant John Price. He would admit he came off as a bit of a reasonable sort. His second in command, however…_

"_Oy, Frenchie! You read me?" the voice spoke up._

_Claycomb briefly massaged his forehead with the receiver before answering. "I'm not French, Soap."_

"_Your passport says otherwise," the voice snickered. "What kind of man trades hot dogs for frog legs, I wonder? Only the most shiftless Yank on the wrong hemisphere, that's who."_

_Jack Claycomb, on most days, couldn't quite bring himself to miss America. Growing up in the Chicago projects could disabuse most notions of patriotism at a very young age. Between that and the warrants, leaving the country to Great Britain wasn't as unthinkable as one may have imagined. His poor habits and social skills, however, caught up with him there, so he fled to mainland Europe to throw Interpol off his trail. From there, he found himself two options before him; continue trying and failing to adopt the criminal lifestyle, or join an organization founded on the concepts of forgiveness and redemption. He wasn't able to find anything like the latter, so he settled for joining the French Foreign Legion._

"_You got something to say to me, Drop-the-Soap?" Jack exasperatedly replied._

"_New orders from the boss. When you're done with the delivery, forget laying low. Return to Beirut immediately," Soap explained._

"…_Things are going to get hot?" Jack eyed the radio, suspiciously._

"_These new guys just offed one of the leaders to one of the previous cells. The last thing anyone wants for the region is for the local shit-kickers to start consolidating. Whoever is in charge of these new developments isn't messing around. We're going to need friends."_

_Jack began eying the lonely shack on the hilltop. A lone sentry followed his car as it approached with a Dragunov. Looks like these guys also shopped local._

"_Speaking of," he said as his jalopy began ascending the hill. "Looks like I found them."_

"_Try to be careful with these guys, Gutter," Soap warned. "Boss has heard rumors about these guys."_

"_You trying to scare me?" Claycomb snorted._

"_You get a reputation if you are good, but not being able to confirm anything indicates they might be better than that. Watch yourself, Frenchie."_

"_Go fuck a sheep," Jack signed off before giving Soap time to respond. He opened his door, taking the AK with him, dropping it to the side as the sentry approached._

"_Zdravstvuyte," Jack announced as he butchered the syllables. The sentry stared at him as he rounded to the trunk of the car, kicking it open to reveal the bound and gagged scholar in the back. Jack Claycomb figured the reason he had been stuck with this particular mission was because the CO had taken his past into account, and figured it would be little issue for him. To Price's credit, he wasn't exactly wrong._

"_So, uh," Jack hesitated as he hoisted out the hostage from the trunk. "How are we doing this?"_

_The sentry grabbed the hostage by the back of the neck, dragging him to his feet and wordlessly turned to the shack._

"_Oh, I just thought…" Jack tried to get out as the sentry began slamming on the flimsy wooden door. It opened briefly to accept the hostage, yanking the man in as the sentry turned back around to the ex-legionary. "…So, we cool?" Jack shrugged._

"…_Get the fuck out of here, Frenchie," the sentry enunciated slowly in Russian-accented English._

_Sgt. Claycomb extended both his traffic-advisory fingers as he headed back to the sedan. He barely spoke the language in the first place, so why the fuck did people keep calling him French? Sometimes he wondered if there was anything binding him to that country in the first place, apart from his newly acquired citizenship and his recently developed taste for French wine and women? He sighed as he drove his jalopy back down the dirt path, to the dusty hovel of a motel where the rest of the team was staying. Yuri watched as the dirt kicked up behind the ever-shrinking car._

* * *

_A spectacled intelligence officer was preparing a device on the center of the table. The hostage, a man named Rashid Al-Saddiq, was forced onto the chair at one end. His new handler rounded the table, sitting himself across from the prisoner. The leader eyed the specialist as he spoke something in Russian. The intelligence officer began speaking to Rashid. "We are here to ask you some questions, Rashid."_

"_Infidels and invaders, a thousand curses upon your ancestors and descendants," the older man scoffed._

_The officer relayed it to his leader, who didn't react. He took a few long seconds to look at the prisoner before continuing. "I hear you are a leader within the Brotherhood of the Falcon?" he eventually relayed to his translator._

"_My death shall give you nothing, outlander," Rashid hissed. "And I fear no torture you may bestow upon me!"_

_The man took some slow, leisurely blinks before talking once more to his partner. The intelligence officer spoke up once again. "Do you know what this device on the table is?"_

_Rashid looked it over, its reams of paper, its wires, its cursor stilling idly. "…I believe it's a polygraph machine," Rashid answered. "It will do you no good. If I cannot deceive you, I shall say nothing!"_

"_Oh, this isn't for you," the leader suddenly spoke in English, a language the old scholar understood. "Andrei, if you would be so kind?"_

_Rashid watched cautiously as the intelligence officer hooked the leader to the machine, placing wires on his wrists and heart. The leader, after hooking up to the machine, folded his arms and looked to his prisoner, and in a calm and level voice stated…_

"_My name is Yakov Smirnoff."_

_The line went wild._

"_My name is Boris Yeltsin."_

_Same result._

"_My name is Viktor Reznov"_

_Likewise._

"_My name is Vladimir Makarov."_

_Suddenly, the meter began to steady. Makarov smiled. "I was never really good at espionage. Goes largely against my upbringing. Deception isn't something that comes naturally to me. Honesty tends to be easier."_

_Makarov slowly began to lean back. "So, Rashid, tell me when the attacks are to take place?"_

"_Russian mongrel!" Rashid spat in Makarov's eye. Andrei readied his Taser, only to stand down when Makarov shot him a look before wiping the spittle from his eye._

_Makarov looked at Rashid and stared. The defiant older man glared back at him. He had known violence and conflict for most of his adult life. He watched as his brothers fought and suffered under tyrannical overlords of all flags and creeds. This man would be little different than the hundreds of other petty dictators he had endured and outlasted._

"…_How is little Fatima?" Makarov asked._

_Rashid stared and said nothing, but Makarov took note of his change in breathing and the sudden appearance of sweat that didn't seem related to the climate._

"_Her school lets out at 1425, correct? From there she prefers to walk home via the wharf."_

_Rashid's jaw began to tighten._

"_I have some contacts in the area. I'm going to be honest with you; I'm not a big fan of what is going to happen if you don't tell me what I need to know. In an hour or so, she is scheduled to be accosted by my contacts. After that point, well, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe your granddaughter will return home eventually, or perhaps the fish-markets supplemental business will see some extra value in her. Perhaps her sacrifice will save the lives of many children of infidels?" Makarov stated, without an ounce of opaque malice or cruelty._

_Rashid stared at the readout of the polygraph. Either Makarov wasn't bluffing, or he was playing a sick joke with the machine._

"_Next up would be your eldest son, Nassir. How is his heart these days? Medication must be hard to come by. Expensive too, but such is the privilege of having a father in the Brotherhood, it must be quite useful in such matters. Still, I imagine if the shock of losing his daughter won't impact his health, the phony medication I planted at his pharmacy should do the trick. My superiors suggested trading them with placebos. I argued it wouldn't send the message it needed to, so I traded it with an amphetamine," Makarov explained._

_The readout remained unaltered. Rashid ran the calculation in his head, imagining any possible avenues this… man could have used to pull off quite what he was claiming. The sudden sense of plausibility began to sicken him._

"_Finally, while espionage isn't my primary weapon of choice, my superiors are significantly more adept at the art. We've had contacts within the Brotherhood of the Falcon for years, and every so often we drop them a line. Foreign spy at such and such, transactions between so and so. Well, as of this morning, the leadership has received a significant tip from its reliable source. That Rashid Al-Saddiq has been in contact with western powers for years, and is the primary reason for the foreign intervention we see in Beirut today."_

"_Lying viper!" Rashid howled, lunging towards Makarov. He was immediately knocked back before even Andrei had readied his Taser. Makarov had thrown a blow that shattered Rashid's orbital bone. As blood filled his vision and the swelling began to cloud his mind, Makarov continued as blood trickled down his forehead, unabated._

"_Now, I cannot guarantee that they will immediately buy into this story, but I have it on good authority that they will exhaust every measure to verify the truth. As such, what do you think are the odds that the Brotherhood of the Falcon will interrogate every single member of your family? How long will it take them to be satisfied with their answers? And how many do you think will survive?"_

_Rashid collapsed his face into his bound hands. "…Devil…" he sobbed. "…The devil walks in human skin…"_

"_He often does," Makarov agreed. "Now, will you give me the names, locations, and times for the attacks?"_

"_You've taken everything from me," Rashid cried. "Nothing will stop monsters like you from killing them when you are done!"_

"_Rashid… look at me," Makarov slowly murmured._

_Reluctantly, the old cleric slowly rose his face to meet his captor._

"…_I am a good man."_

_The machine went berserk._

"…_I am a kind man."_

_It scribbled relentlessly._

"…_I am an honest man."_

_The cursor returned to its baseline._

"_Help us, and the men will be called off, the medication replaced, and one final call will be made by our sources to… redirect their wrath. This much I will promise you, Rashid."_

* * *

"…_Sorry, you must have called the wrong number," the voice on the other line spoke._

"_You aren't the one I want to talk to, put me on the line with your boss," Makarov spoke._

_The phone was handed off._

"…_Well?"_

"_Fifteen shooters, three suicide cars, headed for the British, French, and Russian embassies this Thursday at 1827."_

_There was a dark chuckle on the other line. "You're a crafty bastard."_

"_Thank you," Makarov nodded. "High praise from one such as yourself."_

"_Don't let your head swell too much, Ivan. Looks like we're going to be very busy in the coming days."_

"_It will be an honor, Lieutenant," Makarov grinned. The line went dead, and Makarov's smile began to recede._

"_Sir, Kamarov is requesting an update on the status of the interrogation," Andrei spoke up as he put down his own cell._

"_We're done with him," he said as he looked over the broken and defeated former terrorist mastermind. "He's no good to us now."_

_Andrei nodded excitedly and was about to relay the information to his superior when a sudden bang knocked the phone out of his hands. He turned in time to see Rashid slump forward onto the table, his skull leaking onto and ruining the polygraph machine._

"_What was that for?!" Andrei screamed as Makarov holstered his sidearm._

"_He's no good for us or anyone. If we kept him alive, all he would do is leverage useless information to broker himself a comfortable sentence for himself and his mistress, in all likelihood."_

"_That doesn't give you license to kill him!" Andrei retorted._

"_I took the same license his organization took in Tel Aviv, Damascus, Mosul, and countless other nameless villages in the region. If he cannot live by the standards he applies to others, he is something worse than a terrorist. He is a hypocrite, and there's nothing more inherently worthless than that."_

_Yuri came bursting into the doorway. "What happened?" he asked, eyes darting around the room._

"_I was educating Andrei about the nature of our work," Makarov explained, nonplussed. "Yuri, ready the truck. Andrei, torch the place."_

"_Makarov… when should I call off the… associates?" Andrei asked._

_Vladimir shot a look over his shoulder. "Whenever you feel it necessary. It really isn't a concern to me." With that, Makarov unhooked himself from the polygraph machine and joined Yuri outside. Andrei took a moment to look at the final reading from the machine. Through the bloodstains and grey matter, Andrei gulped as he saw that Vladimir Makarov appeared to be every bit the sociopath the rumors indicated he was. Surely, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of them joined Rashid whenever Makarov felt they would not live up to his bat-shit standards. Andrei would have to find a way to save himself._

Yuri noticed the jet fighter soar past the window. The rest of the squad was alerted by the sudden noise, reaching for weapons that would doubtlessly not serve them against this adversary. They were trapped on a large plane with no defensive countermeasures. One missile would be all it took to send them all into the Sea of Japan.

"Relax, men, it isn't hostile," Makarov waved his men back. "See? It's a MiG-31. Foxhound. One of the KPA's new toys."

Most of the men breathed a sigh of relief and went back to their previous aimless milling. Yuri and Fei, however, didn't relax.

"Why get an escort now? I thought we were just a cargo plane?" Yuri asked.

"…Maybe tensions are starting to escalate?" Fei offered, chewing on her knuckle. "My government has been ordering the junta to act more aggressively against Seoul."

"So we're getting dropped off in a warzone?" Yuri scoffed as he returned to his seat. "Some things never change, do they, Vladimir?"

Vladimir had already returned his headphones to their previous position. As the Gregorian chants calmed his mind and took him back to his formative years in the seminary, he wondered just what kind of game Generals Zakhaev and Peng were using him for. They didn't seem like gamblers, and at the very least Zakhaev would have a difficult time replacing assets like the Lost Souls. Makarov felt a smile creep across his face as he realized what they were going over to do. The Makarov signature specialty; instigation.


	7. Intercept

Chapter 7: Intercept

Taetan Air Base was awaiting its routine supply-drop from China. Another shipment of weapons and medical supplies from their allies/masters. The Colonel stood outside the control tower, chewing tobacco leaking from the side of his mouth as he gripped his binoculars. A hold-over from the previous regime, the airbase officer was old school, preferring a manual approach to aviation matters over the computerized chains his superiors ordered at the behest of their superiors, he sniffed.

Of course, that wasn't to say that all they were looking forward to this upcoming delivery was a few crates of small arms and some meal packets. He and some chosen accomplices had been handpicked to "escort" some volatile cargo through the countryside. It was a critical mission, and success entailed a hearty promotion on his end, followed by a quaint little nest egg for his retirement.

He wasn't a vocal supporter of the junta, but by leaving him the reins of his petty kingdom, he found no reason to quarrel with them. He disliked Beijing but hated Seoul and their overseas masters with them. His country had turned from a ravenous stray dog into a pet for their northern neighbors, but at least it was more comfortable than the old regime. Famine was less of a concern now, and even before they fell, the previous family had lost their deification in the eyes of their subjects. Had they not surrendered to the coalition, it would be inevitable that an enraged public and an apathetic military would guarantee their damnation.

Still, not all of the military was comfortable with the new national hierarchy. Some of his contemporaries saw North Korea's new vassalage an insult to their patriotic pride. They resisted, and the Colonel watched as one by one, the cells were either exterminated or sent north for "deprogramming." Their loss, he thought to himself. More power to me and my friends. The upcoming relay of the rogue squad was a delicate and contentious exchange. He knew only the name of the Major he was to hand them off to, and from there the squad would bounce from one end of the country to their final destination. Nothing had to go wrong, he thought to himself as he saw the cargo plane and its escort enter his field of vision.

From the tree line, the Colonel was watched through the scope of a rifle, the shooter awaiting orders over a walkie-talkie. Around them, several squads awaited the signal, in a scene that would not look out of place in a conflict a century ago were it not for the equipment.

"Begin," the phone squawked, and the trigger was pulled, the attack commenced, and the Colonel fell to the ground mortally wounded a half-second later.

* * *

The co-pilot shared a look with his captain as he continued to try and contact the radio tower. As they made their approach to the airfield, one of their passengers poked his head into the cockpit. "Is everything ready for our arrival?"

"We're getting some interference from the radio tower. Pay it no mind, these things happen from time to time," the captain announced as he looked over his instruments.

Makarov nodded, ducking his head back, squeezing his way back through the cargo, and coming up to his men as they chatted to pass the time. "Our landing has been compromised. We're leaving this plane," he announced unceremoniously.

The formerly relaxed air around the crew suddenly became heavier. Lev let out a groan while Kiril went to fetch some parachutes. Viktor buried his face in his hands, remembering how brutal jump school had been for someone of his stature. Anatoly couldn't contain his giddiness, as most of his previous para-missions had come via rappelling from helicopters, so this would be new for him. Yuri was already making his rounds, watching as his subordinates all prepped and secured one another for the jump. That was when he realized that one member of the team hadn't moved from her seat.

Fei looked mortified. She gripped her computer with a white-knuckled intensity. Yuri looked her over and scoffed. "So, civilian, how would you like to leave this vessel?"

She bristled at the term. "I was military," she snapped.

"Desk jockey computer nerd," Yuri shot back. "Guess this is your first time in country?"

Fei tried hopelessly to swallow the lump in her throat. The situation around her was becoming more chaotic by the minute. Her safety could only be guaranteed at the hands of her rescuers/abductors. There was a certain lack of justice about the whole affair. All she wanted was for them to all jump from the plane only for it to miraculously make a landing in North Korea, where she would be safe.

"Miss Huang," Makarov barked. "Enough dawdling, we don't have the time. Yuri, strap Ms. Huang to yourself, we are vacating this craft."

"How long do you think we have?" Anatoly asked as he fastened the last snap on his backpack.

An explosion popped off near the craft. Yuri managed to shoot a glance out the window, watching as the fiery remains of their escort tumbled to the ground. Almost immediately afterward, the plane lurched to the side, hoping in vain that the hijacked air-defense emplacements on the ground would be able to pass up on hitting such a large target.

"Viktor, open the hatch!" Makarov commanded.

"We're at an angle!" the big gunner shot back.

"Now!"

The back half of the plane opened. Unsecured cargo began to rattle and fall from the end, creating a light trail of small crates and boxes. Makarov made the first dive, followed by the brothers and Anatoly. Viktor, acting as a temporary jumpmaster, looked back at the last two members on the plane. Fei tried to back away, only to back into the waiting chest of Yuri, who proceeded to expertly strap a vest around her body and attach it to his own in a matter of seconds.

"Wait, no! What are-" was all she could get out before he tightly bound her computer to her ribs, interrupting her airflow. With the small woman secured, Yuri dashed to the hatch, leaving right as the SAM struck the cockpit, Viktor following without a moment to spare. Yuri turned to look as the cargo plane hurdled to the ground, erupting in flames some distance away in a densely wooded area. Fei clenched her eyes closed, praying to deities she didn't believe in and hoping she could land somewhere close to the DMZ. Beneath the tree-line, the survivors of the plane gently drifted away from one another, as observed through the scope of their hunter.

"We have confirmation on surviving operators," a thick Korean voice spoke into their walkie-talkie. "Have teams move to intercept. Take survivors, they might be allied. If not, neutralize with prejudice."

* * *

"Move your ass!" Soap screamed as he grabbed the man by the nape of his neck. Roach laid down cover fire as he moved, rounds shredding into the plywood as heads ducked back behind shelter. He kept his head on a swivel, searching for the best position their adversaries could implement an overwatch. The rest of their team was already down, it was just the two of them and one hostage.

"Escape vehicle dead ahead!" Soap cried as he vaulted over some cover, the hostage catching the edge, forcing Soap to drop his weapon to hoist him over. That was when Roach saw the enemy operator dart from around the corner. He tried to call out to his partner, but it was too late, and Roach could only watch in helplessness as rounds peppered into Soap's back. Roach retaliated, dropping his adversary by planting one dead center on their goggles, but by then their opposition had already swarmed him. With a great deal of trepidation, Roach dropped his weapons, getting on his knees as he raised his hands.

The buzzer went off, and all participants immediately relaxed, with the dead rising back to their feet and stretching out. The hostage immediately ripped off his hood, glanced at his martyred savior as they picked themselves off the ground, and immediately stormed over to her and began ripping into her.

Roach couldn't speak a lick of Korean, but he was familiar enough with military etiquette to understand the gist of what the base commander/hostage was going on about. "Enough cowboy bullshit/this isn't a movie/work with your damn squad" and the like. He lent a hand down and picked Soap off the floor. "Thought you'd go down shooting," Soap ribbed.

"Sorry, I forgot if I was supposed to be a terrorist or a mercenary," Roach joked.

"Got to give them credit, though, these birds know how to scrap," Soap relented as he dusted himself off.

The 707th Special Mission Group was one of the first and few commando groups in the world to fully implement female soldiers into their battalion. Thanks to cultural attitudes surrounding women, quite a few in the military saw value in having soldiers that wouldn't be immediately regarded as a threat by certain opposition. And, as they had just demonstrated, standards and training hadn't been skimped in the slightest.

"Want to go grab a bite while they clean this up for the next rehearsal?" Soap offered as some of the base staff came in to clean up and replace the thin wood barriers.

"Got nothing better to do," Roach shrugged. As he turned to leave with his partner, he looked back to see the "hero" operator being led from the stage, apparently for disciplinary actions. She turned to look at him, her mask covering the whole of her face except the eyes, which made contact with his. They stared for the briefest of moments, which was only broken when she gave him the bird, her base commander shoving her in the back to hurry her off to the local provost sarge or however this base was run.

As Soap left the facility, he ran into the person who was by far his least favorite person on this base. This guy stood out, looking all the world like a half-assed Elvis impersonator (skinny version) wearing a drab Hawaiian shirt with cargo shorts and sandals. He smiled vacantly as Soap shoved him aside. "Not in the mood, Phil."

"I think you'll like this one," Special Agent Phil Massey called after him.

"Nothing good ever came from a spook asking for help," Soap snarled.

"I have plenty of other assets on hand, MacTavish, like some Delta boys station near Seoul who could really use a change in scenery," he grinned.

"Great, go harass them. CIA instigates enough shit, they should be used to getting their own hands dirty by now," Soap sniffed.

"There's… more to it than that, I'm afraid," Phil attempted to look apologetic. "As it stands, this operation of mine could go for a bit of a personal touch, and you, my friend, are possibly the only person in the region who could give it."

"I don't know anyone in Asia, genius. No one I'd bother to remember," Soap shot as he started for the mess hall.

"Do you remember Jack Claycomb?" Agent Massey asked as Soap ground to a halt, and he could not stop the grin from creeping on his face.

"Word through the grapevine is some former mutual associates just entered the neighborhood, north of our beautiful picket fence and all."

Soap turned to stare down the agent, his face contorted into a stern, humorless grimace. "Where is he and how do you know?"

"He was supposed to have landed in Taetan some time ago, and some of my… assets decided to complicate the landing. We could use a good pair of eyes to verify. Interested?" Agent Massey asked.

As Roach left the training facility, he saw Soap walking off with the Yank, as Soap had called him politely. He started after them, but his superior officer shot him a look that contrasted heavily with his formerly gregarious personality. "Personal matter. If I'm not back in time for training, take over," was all he said.

* * *

As the two hit the ground in a field several hundred meters from the base, Fei immediately went to work trying to unstrap herself from Yuri. She fumbled with the latches as she hyperventilated, the experience of freefalling not agreeing with her. From the faint sounds that could overpower the blood rushing through her head, she could make out the sounds of a firefight some distance away. This caused her to further rush her fingers, which led to more fumbling as the parachute fell behind them.

"Wait a moment," Yuri said as he unlatched her harness from his.

She broke away, grateful to be free of the man who essentially threw her off a plane, her rationality temporarily forgetting the plane had been destroyed and he had jumped with her. She held onto the ground, not wanting to ever leave this patch of terra firma for any reason. An assault rifle nearby fired off some bursts. Fei looked back and saw Yuri prone on the ground, drawing his own carbine as he attempted to return fire.

In life or death situations, instinct tells individuals that before them are often two options; fight or flight. Those familiar with combat will take the former whenever possible. Those who are not will take the latter. Yuri realized this as he turned his head back to see Fei darting into the woods.

"GET BACK HERE AND STAY DOWN!" he screamed in Russian, but Fei was panicking and in little position to think straight. Yuri could only growl in frustration as he minimized his profile, his best hope being to kill his attackers and reconnect with the others before it was too late.

Fei weaved through the trees. From her periphery, she could make out the faint sounds of unfriendly-toned Korean as they combed through the trees. An emerging root snagged her foot, sending her sprawling to the ground. As the voices drew closer, Fei gave up any chance of outrunning them, instead pressing her back against a tree as she clutched her computer to her body like some kind of security blanket. She gagged herself with her palm as she heard voices draw closer to her position.

Reluctantly, she peeked behind her. She saw three individuals wearing tactical gear over jumpsuits, their faces covered by cloth masks. They carried some old Russian weapons, antiquated equipment held-over from the previous regime before it capitulated to China. There was no mistake, these were insurgents.

She debated with herself what to do. She knew she couldn't hide forever, the thick trunk wouldn't be able to protect her. She wondered if she could make a break for it, weighing against the possibility that is her pursuers didn't shoot her down first, it was likely she'd run into other patrols. She wondered if she should just call out for the others, recognizing that that gamble would leave her exposed to the mercy of the insurgents. She thought perhaps her best option would be surrender, leaving herself at the questionable mercy of people who attacked a military base.

The barks of automatic fire interrupted her line of thought. She heard a body drop to the ground as her hunters immediately returned fire. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure charge forward, emptying rounds of shells into the two surviving rebels. Shortly afterward, the sounds of firing stopped, only to be replaced by thick, meaty thuds. Curiosity getting the better of her, she peeked out, seeing one of her companions bludgeoning the wounded survivor to death with a rock. Shaken by the sight, she immediately began trying to bolt, only to run straight into the waiting body of another of her handlers.

"Ah, our princess remains safe and sound!" Lev laughed as he put her in a headlock.

"Augh, let me go," Fei tried to get out, helplessly trying to beat on his arm.

"Now, now, what kind of escort would I be if I allowed you to wander around unprotected?" Lev asked as he dragged her to his brother. "Oy, Kiril! You done with your food?"

Kiril's victim was still trying to get away, even as his skull by now was surely broken. Fei watched in horror as Kiril hoisted the rock high above his head and brought it down on the unfortunate rebel in an act of belated mercy.

Lev laughed as the corpse's legs spasmed and twitched. Kiril climbing off of it as he picked his shotgun back up. He noticed Fei being held back. "So, what are we doing with her?"

Fei looked up to Lev. "You know, brother, I really don't know. She just keeps finding ways to get herself into trouble, doesn't she? Maybe more trouble than she's worth."

"Let go!" Fei hissed.

"Too much trouble to throw away," Kiril added. "If something happened to her, Makarov wouldn't be pleased."

"Makarov just wants her alive and intact," Lev corrected. "Her condition… well, that can be subject to some… let us say "malleable interpretations," he grinned.

"What are you two saying?" Fei asked, a pit forming in her stomach.

Lev grinned. "Fei, the three of us just want to be friends. All we ask is that we keep each other happy. I know I want you to be happy by being safe and secure. Do you want me to be happy?" he asked.

"What are you getting at?" Fei asked again, the implications wracking her brains.

"Maybe it's best to give a little bit to get along," Lev said as he released her. "Just a little something to keep in mind. It's a cruel and dark world out there, Miss Huang. Sometimes you can only expect to get back what you put out," he grinned.

"You're a pig," Fei hissed.

"OK," Lev raised his hands. "I understand completely. Kiril, why don't you escort Miss Huang while we find the rendezvous?"

Fei looked back just in time to see Kiril bring his boot down on the already desecrated skull, completely collapsing it into itself. "Da?" he asked. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

Fei slowly backed herself next to Lev. "That's what I thought," he chuckled to himself, quietly.

* * *

Makarov and Anatoly were hiding by the road when Lev, Kiril, and Fei found them. "Where are the others?" he asked as they joined him under the roadway.

"Vik's bringing up the rear, as usual," Lev snorted.

Makarov stared down Fei. "Yuri was with you. What happened?"

"We… we got separated," Fei answered. "I don't know where he is."

Makarov turned from her, the muscles on his face unaccustomed to accentuating worry. This mission was already fraught with risk before it had been officially compromised. If he lost his second-in-command, things would get even more desperate. Already he had to drastically readjust how to proceed from here. Their road to Vladivostok was now separated by several thousand kilometers of ambiguously hostile territory, and Makarov had no friends through which he could trust. From this point forward, everyone was going to have to pull their weight.

Viktor came bounding up, his machine gun hanging from his back as to took a moment to catch his breath.

"Well?" Makarov asked.

"I think we were able to repulse most of the search parties. Most of them seem more focused on attacking the airbase, which drew most of their reinforcements. I think we're good."

"What of Yuri?" Fei asked.

Viktor shook his head. "Last I saw him he was with you."

A pang of guilt developed in Fei's chest. Rationally, there wasn't anything she could have done. Emotionally, she turned her back on him and left him to defend himself. As far as she knew, Yuri died trying to protect her, intentionally or not.

"…We cannot stay," Makarov announced, flatly. "We're finding a transport and we are leaving this area as soon as-"

"Makarov, look!" Anatoly announced as he pointed through the treeline.

The exhausted frame of Yuri Sokolov gradually broke through the vegetation, much to the jubilation of his squadmates, ignoring their backslaps and congratulations as he pushed through the group. He only came to a stop in front of Fei, and proceeded to grab her by the collar of her coat and yanked her off the ground until she was eye level with him.

"When I give an order," he snarled. "You follow that order. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Fei gulped.

"Repeat it," Yuri growled.

"You give the order, I obey," Fei nodded.

"Enough chatter. Everybody down. BTR approaching," Makarov announced. Everyone dove by the side of the pass, keeping their bodies minimized.

"Well, Anatoly, how many?" Makarov asked.

"Just one from what it looks like," Anatoly relayed. "But I don't know if it's one of our allies or an enemy one."

"At this point," Makarov said as he attacked a grenade launcher to his rifle. "There is hardly a distinction. It's just us now, men. Whatever means necessary, do what we must to survive."


End file.
